


Just The Two Of (vir)Us

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [27]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Oh my god they were quarantined, Stuck in the office, and fail, and try not to fall into bed, it’s an excuse to force these guys to spend two solid weeks together, there was only one office, this isn’t really about the pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: I sawthisand here we go. It is utterly unwritten, but hey, we’ve got months ahead of us...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 444
Kudos: 291





	1. Prologue

There’s something in Strike’s tone that snags Robin’s attention. He’s on the phone in his office, the door ajar, and as usual she can’t hear any words, just the comforting rumble of his voice. But he sounds more...clipped, irritated, than normal. That’s not what’s caught her ear, though. He’s often not wildly happy about news he’s receiving or the lack of cooperation from clients or marks. This is different.

Before she can work out what it is, the phone call is ended. There’s a long pause, and then she hears him get up. His tread is heavier, somehow, as he makes his way through to the main part of the office.

She looks up with a carefully neutral expression as he appears and hovers uncertainly in the doorway. He looks...worried? Suddenly a small stab of anxiety runs through her. “What’s up?”

“That was Wardle on the phone.”

“Oh?” Robin wonders what Wardle can have said that has made her partner look so sombre.

“He’s got it.” Strike’s voice is clipped, matter-of-fact.

For a wild moment, Robin’s brain scrambles about. Got what? What piece of evidence were they lacking? What idea has their detective friend suddenly had? She draws a blank. “Got what?”

“The virus.”

“Oh! Oh, no, poor guy,” Robin says, her face twisting with sympathy. It’s not meant to be overly dangerous for their age group (she guesses Wardle is older than her but younger than Strike), but nevertheless, it’s not a walk in the park.

Strike stands there looking at her, and suddenly the penny drops.

“He was here yesterday!”

Strike’s expression is grim. “Yup. And I thought he looked peaky.”

Robin casts her mind back, her eyes going unfocused. “I don’t remember a lot of coughing, but now I think of it—”

“Yeah, he did cough a bit. I told him he’d have to stop smoking again and he just scowled at me.”

Robin sits and lets the ramifications of their situation sink in. “So we’re—”

“In isolation.” Strike nods.

“Just like that?”

Strike shrugs. “If we’re to contain it, yeah.”

Robin looks around. “He sat on the sofa,” she murmurs. “I’d better wipe it. And the door handle. And—”

Strike is shaking his head. “It’s too late, Robin. We’ll have touched all the things he touched, probably right after he left. Thank God he was the last visitor of the day.”

Robin sighs, sits back, nods. “You’re right.” She looks up at him, biting her lip, anxious. “So now what?”

Strike shrugs, and he looks guarded suddenly, his expression closed off. “We wait.”

“For two weeks?”

“Yup.”

“Here?”

“Yup.”

“Together?”

He swallows hard. “Yup.”

Robin folds her shaking hands in her lap. “Right. That’s— Right.” That’s _fine_ , is what it is. It’s fine.

She looks at him, and he nods briskly. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMERS: I am not trying to make light of the virus and the difficulties people and their loved ones all around the world face. I’m just seizing on a semi-plausible reason for Strike and Robin to be forced to spend two weeks in each other’s company whilst frantically denying their feelings. It’s been done so well in other fandoms (I’m looking at you, SG1) and I’ve long wanted to do it for our lovesick fools here. By the same token, of course Robin would just be able to wrap her face in a scarf and go home even if she had to walk all the way. But let’s suspend our disbelief, shall we? The outside of the office is all lava for the purposes of this fic 😂


	2. Day One - Strike

“Right,” Strike says again, briskly. “Right.” _Say something else, idiot._ Robin looks— apprehensive? And of course she would be. This is more his territory than hers, after all. Territory they’re now going to have to share for two solid weeks.

One step at a time. His Army training kicks in, so ingrained in him that it’s almost an instinct even after many years out. “Shelter, water, food,” he mutters.

“What?” Robin’s looking at him, she must have heard.

He flushes. “Survival training. Shelter, water, food.”

She puts her head on one side, distracted for a moment. “Isn’t water first?”

He shakes his head. “The wrong environment - too cold, desert heat, storm - can kill you in hours. Lack of water will take a couple of days. Lack of food, weeks. So that’s the priority order. Shelter, water, food.”

Robin grins, and he wonders if she’s taking the piss, just a tiny bit. “Shelter and water we have covered. Food...?”

Strike thinks. He’s not long been shopping, but—

“Probably about two days, if you’re happy with pasta and cheese or, at a push, beans on toast. I think I might have some bacon. And not the vegetarian kind.”

Robin chuckles. Gourmet, it isn’t. But they’ll survive. “I’ll try and get a supermarket delivery set up. They can leave it in the hall downstairs and I can pay online.”

Strike nods. He glances at his watch. “I’ll start cancelling appointments. Better hurry, Mr Suspicious is due in an hour.” He’s already trying to calculate which cases can be run entirely from outside the office, by Barclay or Hutchins, and which will have to go on hiatus until they’re back up and running. He nods again, and turns back towards his office.

It’s fine, suddenly. They have jobs to do, a plan. Robin calls up the various supermarket delivery websites on tabs across her computer screen, and sets about working out which has the soonest available delivery slot. She works through them methodically, and she very carefully doesn’t wonder where she’s going to sleep. That will be for Strike to organise.

They reconvene an hour later when Strike, voice a little hoarse and throat dry from having the same conversation over and over again - “no, thank you, we’re fine, just need to postpone everything by two weeks until we’re in the clear” - emerges from his office, gasping for tea. He fills the kettle and switches it on. “Any luck?”

Robin pulls a face. “The best I can get is Friday.”

Strike thinks hard. It’s Tuesday now. He has a pack of pasta upstairs, half a loaf of bread, one can of beans. Maybe a few rashers of bacon, a bit of Cheddar of questionable age. Perhaps a couple of eggs, he’ll have to check. And there are two of them, for three meals a day. There’ll be no popping out for sandwiches. Plus the milk is low. He shakes his head. “Not soon enough.”

Robin gazes at him, a little alarmed. “Really?”

He shrugs. “Well, we’d not starve. There’s enough to keep us alive. But we don’t need to live on starvation rations. I’ll ring Ilsa and ask her to drop a bag of staples off, keep us going till then.”

Robin nods, relieved. She had forgotten that kind of thing was an option. “Right, then. So what are we actually going to do?”

The kettle boils, and Strike pours water onto tea bags, thinking.

“For now, carry on as normal but without the clients,” he says. “We can do all the online research for each case, write up our notes, make phone calls. All we can’t do is physical trailing or face-to-face interviews. Sam and Andy can do some of that, but some cases I have had to postpone.”

Robin sighs, a little frustrated. The bank account mostly stays in the black these days, but only because there’s a steady stream of work. They can’t afford to turn jobs away. But what else can they do?

Strike pours meagre helpings of milk into their mugs. They need this little bit of milk to last until Ilsa can get here. He takes a deep breath. “About the sleeping arrangements—” he hears himself say.

He turns back to face her, and Robin’s ears have gone pink. “Yes?” She’s striving for normality, he can see, as though this is something they discuss all the time.

“I’ll sleep in my office, on the camp bed,” he says, and holds up a hand as she opens her mouth to speak. “It makes sense, you know it does. I’ve done it before, and it’s my space in there. I’ll put clean sheets on the bed upstairs, make that your room.”

Robin closes her mouth again and nods doubtfully. It doesn’t seem fair, but she doesn’t suppose she’ll have any luck trying to talk him out of it.

Strike turns back to fish tea bags out of mugs. His mind is whirring, calculating how he can get himself some time upstairs to tidy up a bit and change the bedclothes, run a cloth round the sink. He’s a pretty organised person generally, but he wasn’t expecting a house guest.

“So,” he carries on. “We’ll eat upstairs, because that’s where the cooker is. But I can use your office and that delightful thing—” he waves an arm at the flatulent sofa “—for my living room in the evenings, give you some space.” He eyes her sideways as he passes her mug of tea across and she thanks him half-absently, her mind clearly elsewhere. He doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t want to spend time with her. But they have to have their own space. Living in each other’s pockets will drive them both up the wall. He feels the first frisson of anxiety at just how long two weeks is when you can’t set foot outside.

Robin nods, and her eyes meet his. “We’ll be fine,” she says stoutly. “It’s not that long, really.”

“That’s the spirit.” He grins at her. “I’ll go and finish these work calls, and ring Ilsa.”

“And I’ll get this food order stocked up. We can still add to it until Thursday evening.”

“Great.” Strike carries his tea through to his office.

The rest of the day passes largely normally. They sit down with their list of current cases and make a plan. Strike rings Barclay and Hutchins and explains, gives Redhead to one and tailing the nanny accused of shirking her duties to the other. He endures a couple of less pleasant calls with clients who don’t agree that their cases can cope with a two-week hiatus, and after that gives himself a break to drink black coffee (it’s not as awful as black tea) and smoke a couple of cigarettes, peering out of his office window at the world he’s suddenly barred from. He’d not realised how often he popped out, to the shop or the pub or to tail clients, until he can’t. He’s never been good with inaction.

He opens his cigarette packet, considering another, and idly counts them. He’s got a spare pack in his desk, and there might be a half pack up in the flat. He sighs and closes the box again. Might have to be careful how many he smokes.

Once five o’clock comes, he suggests Robin give him a little time to tidy up upstairs. She agrees, saying she needs to make some calls anyway, and he heads on up to make his space ready for her. He can hear her on the phone to her mum, explaining, as he lets himself into his flat. It doesn’t take long to whisk around with a cloth, strip his bed and dump the sheets in the hamper, remake it. He pulls a box of books out from under his bed and puts a likely-looking couple on his bedside table, and leaves the box handy. She’s the one at a disadvantage here, having only her handbag with her. He’s got all his own things, the least he can do is share.

In the bathroom, he pulls a toothbrush still in its packet out from under the sink and leaves it next to the tap. He puts a spare loo roll out, hesitates and then puts the seat down. Too obvious? But he wants her to feel at home, as much as she can.

He emerges to the sound of a cautious tap on his door. “Come in,” he calls, and then Robin is there, in his flat.

She’s been up here before, a few times, to wake him mostly, and on one memorable occasion to escape forensics in the office. But never socially. Almost no-one ever enters his space. If he meets a woman, he usually manages to go back to her place. Even Lorelei barely came here, and he hasn’t dated anyone since her.

Robin hesitates by the door, unsure, and he gives her a big grin. “Come on in, make yourself at home,” he jokes, trying to put her at her ease. “Here.” He takes her hold-all from her, the one that lives behind the office sofa and contains her various spare clothes and disguises, and goes through to put it on his bed.

He supposes there are no pyjamas in it. Why would there be?

 _Stop it._ He pushes that thought firmly from his mind, and goes back out.

“So, pasta and only-slightly-out-of-date cheese, or beans on toast?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood, and Robin smiles.

“Let’s have the pasta,” she says, and Strike nods.

“Right you are.”

“I might get changed—” She glances uncertainly towards his bedroom.

“Be my guest. It’s your space now,” he replies, indicating the kit bag by the door that he’s filled with everything he’ll need downstairs, alongside his sleeping bag and the folded-up camp bed.

Robin smiles again. It’s a little awkward, but they’re managing. They know each other well enough to do this. She goes into his room and closes the door, and Strike turns to his kitchenette and starts to prepare dinner, very carefully not thinking about Robin getting changed in his bedroom, only a few steps away.

They really do know each other well enough to do this. They pass a pleasant enough evening. Robin changes into her gym clothes and sits on his easy chair with her bowl of pasta and bacon bits and cheese, her bare feet tucked up under her, and Strike sits at his dining table on the single chair and shovels food into his mouth and wishes he could have a beer. He’s got one in the fridge, but no wine to offer Robin, and it feels rude to drink if she’s not, so they have water because Strike is not the kind of person who has many soft drinks about. He makes a cup of tea afterwards while Robin washes up (she insists), and for a few minutes they work side by side in cosy domesticity.

They drink their tea and make a plan for tomorrow. Ilsa is dropping some shopping off on her way to work. They can buzz her in and she’ll leave it at the bottom of the stairs.

It’s only nine o’clock, but Strike is running out of things to say in this slightly odd situation they find themselves in, so when his tea is finished he bids Robin goodnight and heaves his stuff down to the office.

He can hear her soft footsteps above him, padding about, as he sets up his camp bed and sleeping bag just like he used to when they first met and he was, technically, homeless. He brushes his teeth in the little bathroom on the landing, grimacing at the taste without his toothpaste, which he left upstairs for Robin. It won’t harm him for a week or so - they often ran out of toothpaste on missions, and it’s the brushing that’s the important bit, after all. He hunts in his desk drawers and finds a stick of chewing gum, after, so that at least he can taste minty and his teeth will feel clean too, and then he finally undresses down to his T shirt and boxers, sets his leg aside, clambers into his sleeping bag.

Up above, he hears the familiar creak of his bed as Robin climbs into it, and he lies there and stares at the ceiling.

Well. He’s not often allowed himself, over the years, to imagine Robin in his bed. But when he has, she certainly hasn’t been in it alone.

He huffs a laugh at himself and reaches for his book, just as his phone pings with an incoming text. Robin.

**This is weird.**

He smiles and texts back. **I know. We’ll get used to it.**

**I feel guilty that I’ve got the bed.**

**Don’t. I’m ex-Army, remember? I can sleep anywhere. And it’s not for long.**

**I know. Well, thank you.**

**You’re welcome. Good night.**

**Night x**

Strike lies and looks at that little kiss for a moment, and then he shakes his head at himself and swipes to close the message. He sets his alarm for the morning and puts his phone down on the floor, picks up his book. He’ll read till he falls asleep, however long that takes.


	3. Day Two - Robin

Robin wakes early the following day. She’s had a restless night. It’s always a bit hard to settle and sleep well somewhere new, and this is a particularly odd situation.

She lies and looks up at the skylight above her. The sky is a dark grey, only the very beginnings of dawn. She estimates it must be six-ish, far too early to get up.

She reaches out and switches on the bedside light, picks up the book Strike had left her. It’s one of the classics, not something she’d necessarily have imagined him owning. Perhaps he had to study it at university.

She reads a little, then sighs and puts the book down again. She’s got too much on her mind.

It’s going to be a long two weeks, and she has practicalities she needs to attend to. Last night she’d laid out all the things from her hold-all to assess the situation she finds herself in. She’s got her gym clothes for tailing Redhead, they’re going to be incredibly handy. She’s also got a swimsuit, which is useless. She has a full change of work gear for days when she gets soaked tailing people in the rain, so that’s good. A pair of leggings, which she’d decided that along with a gym shirt would be her pyjamas. And she’s got a sweatshirt which she ended up leaving here after that week when the heating broke, because it’s good for warming up if she gets cold on stakeouts. That’s it.

Luckily Strike has a small washing machine, although stuff will have to dry hung about the place and on radiators. But she’s going to manage for clothes. What she doesn’t have is underwear.

Sensible Ilsa had texted her about just such practicalities last night, offering to go to her flat and fetch things. The only person who has a spare key to Robin’s flat is her mum (well, there’s one in her desk, but that’s no more use than the one in her handbag right at this moment), and she’s hardly going to ask her older parents to leave the relative safety of a rural Yorkshire farm to come to London and bring her supplies. She was half tempted by Ilsa’s offer, but she doesn’t need stuff, she can manage with what she has. There’s a spare phone charger in her desk, and she has these clothes. The hold-all contains makeup, not that she’ll need it with no clients coming in, but there’s enough moisturiser in there to last the two weeks. And she’s not wild about anyone, even Ilsa, going through her underwear drawer. So she said no, thank you, but would Ilsa mind grabbing some functional M&S knickers on her way today.

So her problem is, how to survive two weeks with one bra. And the only answer is, keep washing it and hope it dries overnight, really. Starting tonight.

Strike has kindly lent her these books, and there’s the television. She’s got some games downloaded onto her phone. She’s hopefully not going to be bored.

She lies there and thinks about practical things they’ll need to add to the supermarket delivery. Washing powder. Loo roll. Tissues and paracetamol in case one of them actually comes down with the bug. For a moment she tries to envisage having to quarantine themselves apart, and how on earth that would work, and then she pushes that thought away. Surely they’ll either both have it or neither of them will. Wardle spent more time in Strike’s office, but touched more things in hers, like the door handle and the coat stand, a mug she washed up afterwards. She wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to which of them has been more exposed.

 _Must ask Cormoran to text Wardle and see how he is,_ she thinks.

It’s lighter now, and she can hear movement below. Strike is getting up. Robin sets aside the book she had picked up again to try to read. She wasn’t absorbing anything anyway. She clambers out of bed and heads for the little bathroom.

She hesitates to use Strike’s stuff, his shampoo and shower gel, but it’s not like she has a choice. She doesn’t have anything of her own. And of course there’s no conditioner. She wishes she’d thought to ask Ilsa for some toiletries, but Ilsa is doing enough for them as it is. She can manage. No one is going to see her, anyway.

She showers fast, half afraid that Strike is going to come upstairs, although she’s pretty sure the gentleman in him would wait for a signal from her. He’ll be able to hear that she’s in the shower, anyway.

She climbs out and dries herself roughly on the towel he’d left on the bed for her, then wraps her hair in it while she goes to get dressed. She pulls on the spare, somewhat creased blouse from the hold-all and a pair of trousers. She’ll wash yesterday’s work clothes this evening and hang them up.

Then she picks up her phone to text Strike and tell him she’s done with the shower and is putting the kettle on.

She dries her hair as best she can. Of course Strike doesn’t own a hair dryer, and all Robin has to address the state of her hair is a tiny folding travel brush in her handbag. She sighs. Looks like two weeks of terrible hair is on the agenda, then.

She sits and slowly, patiently brushes it in strands with the tiny brush, wishing she could blow-dry it as she does at home.

 _Come on, Ellacott. This isn’t a disaster in the grand scheme of things. People all over the place have it much worse._ But she likes her hair how she likes it, and now it’s going to be dry and messy and Strike is going to see it. And it smells wrong.

Eventually she fishes a ponytail band from her gym supplies and ties it back. Strike hasn’t appeared, and she picks up her phone. He’s texted back to say he’s got himself a mug of tea downstairs and he’ll shower at lunch time.

Robin shrugs. She tidies all her things carefully away in case Strike wants to use the space, repacking her hold-all and setting it against the wall, making the bed. Then she makes herself a cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast, and carries them down to her desk.

“Morning,” she calls, and hears his answering rumble from his office, and suddenly she feels better. This is normal. This could be any Wednesday morning. They can do this.

She fires up her computer, munching her toast, and before long the door buzzer goes. She answers it, and hears a cheerful Ilsa, down on the street. It’s hard to talk over the intercom, but they exchange a few pleasantries and then Robin buzzes her in. She waits for the text to say Ilsa’s out and gone, and then she goes downstairs to retrieve the post and their supplies. She’s careful not to touch the bannisters on the way, mindful that they share the lower floors with other people.

When she arrives back upstairs, Strike appears. “Might as well take them on up,” he says, reaching to take the bags from her, and Robin nods, passing the groceries over. Strike carries the bags upstairs, and Robin hovers. Should she follow?

No. In normal circumstances she’d never even consider following him up to his flat, and although these aren’t normal circumstances, it’s still his flat. She sits down and starts to go through the post, working through it methodically as she always does, answering the phone when it rings, while above her she can hear her partner moving about, putting shopping away. She wonders what Ilsa has bought.

She doesn’t have to wonder long. Strike reappears with a pint of milk, a packet of biscuits and a big grin, and passes her the till receipt. Robin reads it while he makes them more tea to go with the biscuits.

Ilsa has really come through for them. Some veg, plenty of fruit (long years of friendship telling her Strike wouldn’t possess so much as an apple, and a month of Robin as a house guest telling her Robin loves her fruit) and the usual staples. Rice, pasta, bread, butter, cheese. A pack of bacon and some beef mince. And at the bottom, a few unrequested items. Mini shampoo and conditioner for Robin. A bottle of white wine. A four-pack of Doom Bar and two packs of cigarettes.

Robin feels almost tearful all of a sudden. “Bless her,” she mutters, and Strike nods, his back still to her, assembling tea.

“She’s a star,” he replies. “I’ll get her a bottle of wine when this is over.”

Robin pauses, looking at the back of him. For the first time, it really hits home that they might actually get ill. That one of them might end up looking after the other. Or that they both might have it. She stares, trying for a moment to imagine what nursing her sick colleague might be like, or having him nurse her—

He turns towards her, tea in hand, and she whips round to face her monitor, face flaming.

“Thanks,” she mutters as he puts the tea down on her desk. She wishes he’d go away and let her regain her composure, but he leans back against the kitchenette counter, opening the biscuits.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says conversationally.

“Yes?” Robin is forced to turn and face him. She picks up her tea and cups it, looking into her mug to avoid his gaze.

“We’re going to run out of work, very quickly.” He offers her a biscuit and she takes it daintily, trying not to touch his fingers.

“Yes.” The thought had occurred to her too. Without the ability to go out and seek new information, many cases are going to stall. She knows their workload, knows Strike has chosen to keep the most lucrative (Redhead) and the one that involves the safety of a child (Lazy Nanny) going, but his choices mean their two contractors will be largely full-time busy. Anything for their other cases that can’t be done on the internet or over the phone isn’t going to get done.

“I think that with a bit of creativity,” Strike continues, “and a fair amount of talking people into helping us over the phone, we can finish this week largely as normal. Then I’m thinking maybe it’s time to overhaul the office. If—” he hesitates. “Well, if we’re both still at work.”

Robin nods. They’ll likely know by this time next week if they’re ill or not. No point dwelling on that. “Overhaul?”

“Get all the files out, tidy them, work out what to archive, streamline our systems.”

Robin meets his gaze for the first time. “That’s a huge job. We have three filing cabinets full to bursting.”

“All the more reason to tackle it now.” He shrugs. “What else is there to do? We need a plan.”

Robin’s eyes search his, and suddenly she sees it, the need for a focus, the fear of inaction. She knows as well as he does how bored they could get, stuck in with no work, but she senses suddenly that he’s going to find the enforced incarceration much harder than she is. Strike has lived a life of solitary independence. He’s not going to take well to enforced cohabitation and curtailed freedoms.

She straightens. “You’re right,” she says decidedly. “Ideal opportunity to take stock of how we do things. I’ll get my cases as far as I can and then put them on hold, and we can make a start.”

Strike nods. “Great.”

There’s a pause, a sense of camaraderie hanging in the air.

“Great,” Strike says again. He takes a handful of biscuits and his tea, and goes back to his office.

The rest of the day passes largely normally. As long as they pretend they’re not trapped, it seems to work. At lunchtime, Robin takes a break from her desk and idly cleans a few things. She knows it’s pointless, but it makes her feel better. Strike disappears upstairs, and she hears the shower running and then the sound of him moving about. He comes back down some time later, his hair still damp, smelling frankly amazing, with a plateful of sandwiches.

They eat in Robin’s office, and Robin focuses on her sandwich to keep her traitorous eyes from straying again and again to the damp curl of hair springing above his shirt buttons. He’d normally be buttoned up to his collarbone, but they’re not expecting any clients, and anyway she shouldn’t even notice. When her sandwich is finished, she goes to make more tea, relieved to stand with her back to him, even more relieved when he takes his stubbled jaw and fresh smell through to his own office so she can concentrate again.

She spends a frustrating afternoon on the phone, trying to persuade information from a records office in Tower Hamlets. It’s so, so much easier to do these things in person, to smile and charm and inveigle and just be allowed to nose through the files herself.

By five she’s ready to stop and go and put her gym clothes on. She vaguely wonders why she’s even bothering with her work clothes when no one is going to come to the office, but Strike is still wearing shirts and trousers. Normality must be maintained.

She goes upstairs before him, and he calls that he’ll just finish his last file. He can’t possibly have much to do; he’s giving her space to go and change, and she’s grateful for that. She goes into his bedroom (her bedroom?) and there on the bed is a packet of Marks & Spencer’s knickers.

Robin gives a faint groan of mortification, her face scarlet again. She’d forgotten she’d asked Ilsa for those. They must have been in with the groceries. She could have taken them out herself, slipped them into her handbag. Instead Strike found them, and now he _knows_.

She picks them up. Standard, high legs, white, just like she asked for. Boring and functional. God, now Strike is going to think these are the sorts of knickers she always wears, as opposed to the only ones she could face asking Ilsa to choose.

What does it matter what knickers her colleague thinks she wears? Would she rather they were lacy thongs and he thought she wore those?

 _Maybe_.

With a flash of irritation at her own wayward thoughts, she throws the packet back down on the bed. It’s not a big deal. They’ve got to live together - ish - for two weeks. They’re going to find out stuff about each other. They’re both adults.

She changes into her gym clothes and goes to start to decide about dinner.


	4. Day Three - Strike

It’s only been forty-eight hours, and Strike is already restless.

He wakes early, far too early. Compared to a proper bed, the camp bed is narrow and uncomfortable. It’s all very well to say he can sleep anywhere, and indeed in his Army days he could. But he’s not twenty-three any more. His back aches. And he bitterly regretted the beer he’d allowed himself with dinner when he had to get up at two o’clock in the morning to pee, which necessitated reattaching his leg. He really ought to bring his crutches downstairs and have them by his bed here like he does in his flat, but for reasons he doesn’t want to analyse too closely, he doesn’t want Robin to see him fetch them. And he can’t just move them in a quiet moment because she’s always bloody well here.

He sighs and rasps a hand across his stubble as he perches on his office windowsill, clad only in boxers and T-shirt, a black coffee steaming gently next to him. He lights a second cigarette, rebelling against his own rationing already.

It’s not Robin’s fault that she’s always here. He knows this, logically. But it’s still not his space any more. He always used to have his...post-coffee bathroom visit upstairs, before coming down to the office. Now that has to take place in their little shared toilet, and no amount of air freshener and leaving the tiny window open can stop him feeling slightly uncomfortable that he might be assailing her olfactory senses. If she’s having similar worries, well, she’s got a bathroom largely to herself up there.

Even if he did bring the crutches down - and he’d have to look at the bloody things all day, lying around in his office, reminding him of a time he does his best not to think about - it’s still not the same as just swinging himself across from his bed to his bathroom, a journey he can do half-asleep now. He’s still got to negotiate two doors and get himself into and out of the tiny loo. There’s no other option. He has more self-respect these days than to resort to an empty Pot Noodle, the memory of which represents a particularly low point in his life.

He stubs out the second cigarette and slurps his coffee. As usual, the caffeine boost makes him feel a little more human, a little less crabby. It’s not Robin’s fault she’s always just...there. She probably wishes she could leave too.

It’s lighter now, the street below slowly filling with people going about their day-to-day business. He idly wonders if there will be mass closures on the cards. Above him, he can hear the creak of his bed as Robin turns over.

She’s up there, under his duvet, that gorgeous red-gold hair across his pillow. Suddenly he’s thinking about the pale green bra that was hanging on the tiny radiator in his bathroom when he popped in after dinner last night. Eyes downcast, Robin had gone to the bathroom herself not long after him, and he suspected she’d moved it.

This makes him think about the packet of knickers he’d found in the bags of groceries. They were too plain, surely, to be anything more than a necessity that she’d asked Ilsa to get her, and suddenly his treacherous mind is wondering what she normally wears. Maybe there’s a pair that matches that bra.

 _For fuck’s sake, Strike._ Two days, that’s all it’s been, and he’s allowing his mind to trample all over the boundaries between them. Boundaries that exist to protect and respect Robin. This needs to stop.

He looks across at the camp bed, at his cast-aside clothes. It must only be about seven, seven-thirty. What’s the point in rushing? It’s not like they’ve got a lot of work to get through. And these moments, alone in his office while Robin sleeps upstairs, are the only time all day that’s truly his.

He sighs, and lights a third cigarette.

By the time Robin comes down, calling her usual cheery greeting, he’s in a much better mood. He’s dressed and at his desk with a fresh mug of tea and an open file, his camp bed neatly packed away. They’ve got enough work to see them through the next couple of days, still plenty of food left upstairs and the grocery order arriving tomorrow. They can do this.

They meet briefly in the outer office to open the last packet of biscuits Ilsa brought and plan the next couple of days, dividing the remaining work in half. Barclay and Hutchins have both emailed in reports and photographs, so they take one of those cases each to update. Even so, there isn’t really enough work to occupy two people for two days.

His mind drifts a little as she’s outlining what they’ve learned about Lazy Nanny. Her hair looks better today - yesterday she’d scraped it all back into a ponytail, and what he could see of it looked kind of frizzy, but today it looks sleeker. It’s still different, though, and he can’t work out exactly how. Less...straight? It doesn’t fall and swing like it usually does. It looks as though it would feel thicker.

Robin’s desk is incredibly tidy - he’d heard her pottering about with it yesterday, presumably when she ran out of things to do. He supposes they could embark on a deep clean of the place if they get really bored, but what would be the point? It’ll all have to be done again if one of them falls ill.

For the first time, he thinks about Saturday and Sunday, and wonders what they’ll do. Two whole days, stuck in this small space together. He’s been known to spend entire Saturdays in jogging bottoms, his prosthesis left by his bed if he’s been having trouble with it, never going further than the fridge or the bathroom. That’s not going to happen this weekend. He supposes they might as well work through as sit around and look at one another.

He munches on another biscuit and forces himself to pay attention, nods his agreement. Work sorted, he hauls himself up, dumps his mug in the sink and goes back to his desk to try to eke out what little he needs to do, to make it last all day.

At lunchtime he goes up to the flat and showers while Robin faffs about tidying her desk again. All her things are neatly packed away, as they had been yesterday. He appreciates her effort but wishes she felt more at home. He wonders what he can do to help her feel more relaxed in his space.

Re-dressed (he hates putting a shirt straight on after his shower; despite his best efforts to get himself dry, his copious body hair seems to hold a lot of water and he feels damp for ages if he dresses straightaway), he makes their sandwiches and heads back down to the office. He’s left a couple of shirt buttons open again to aid the drying process. Robin didn’t appear to mind or indeed even notice yesterday, and it’s not like they have clients coming in.

The afternoon passes without incident, though he’s still smoking too much, mostly out of boredom. He’s relieved when he hears Robin pack up and head upstairs to change. He waits until he hears her start to open drawers and clatter pots in the kitchen, and follows her up.

She’s opened the wine Ilsa brought tonight, so he allows himself another beer. They’re less formal with one another tonight, relaxed by alcohol, chatting about people they know and wondering how everyone is. Robin’s parents are well, staying put on the farm and getting Stephen and Jenny to bring groceries, walking Rowntree and keeping to themselves. Strike resolves to ring Ted and Joan again and see how they’re faring. Their village has set up a scheme for younger people to shop for the older folks on a rota system. It never ceases to amaze him, in his line of work where he perennially deals with the worst of human behaviour, how kind and community-minded people can really be.

They cook side by side, chopping onions, frying the beef mince, boiling pasta, and carry on chatting while they eat. Then Robin pours herself another glass of wine and suggests they repair downstairs to finish off the grocery order she’s left open on her computer.

There’s a weird domesticity to it. It’s odd to see a glass of wine (well, a tumbler; Strike doesn’t own a wine glass) and a beer on Robin’s desk. He sits at the end as he does when they’re going through a file together and they discuss what they need.

“More apples,” Robin muses, and Strike grins.

“Only as many as you’ll eat.”

She casts a sideways glance at him. “It wouldn’t hurt you to eat the odd piece of fruit.”

Strike shrugs. “I eat vegetables.”

“Still wouldn’t hurt.”

He grins again. “Fine, stick some bananas on there.”

Robin adds them to the basket. She peers at the screen.

“So, we’ve got spag bol one night, sweet and sour pork, a chicken pie. Chilli con carne. Um... I’m out of inspiration.”

Strike sighs. “How are we supposed to know now what we’ll feel like eating next week?”

Robin shrugs. “I know. Just have to pick some more meals.”

He puffs his cheeks out. “I dunno. Just— double up? All that lot again? That’s eight meals then.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of pasta.”

Irritation flares, and he squashes it down. What does it matter what they eat? “Whatever, then.” He raises his hands, a helpless gesture. “I don’t mind.”

She sighs a very small sigh, as though she’s being patient and he’s the one being annoying, and Strike stands. “I’ll go and check if we need loo roll.”

“I’ve put a four-pack in.”

He sits down again. “I won’t go and check if we need loo roll.”

There’s a small, tense pause.

“Something Indian,” Strike says eventually. “Get a jar of curry sauce and some naans.”

Robin takes the olive branch, such as it is, nods. “More rice and chicken, then?”

“Yeah.”

Robin adds them to the order.

“Biscuits,” Strike says suddenly. “A lot of them.”

A smile flickers around her mouth as she adds biscuits, and tea bags and milk. She thinks for a moment, and then goes back and randomly doubles up on a couple of meals. It doesn’t really matter.

“Right,” she says. “Beer, cigarettes? It is the weekend coming up.”

Strike laughs a hollow laugh. “Yeah, leisure time,” he says, and he can hear the sarcastic note in his own voice. His stomach twists again at the thought of all that time...

Robin nods. “I know. We’ll manage.” She turns back to her screen. “Well, I’m adding a couple of bottles of wine. I can always take them home afterwards, if I don’t drink them.”

“Get me a few Doom Bar, then.”

“And cigarettes?”

Strike makes a quick mental calculation. It’s the weekend coming up, and there will be beer. He’s almost out of the cigarettes Ilsa bought. His consumption when bored and/or drinking Doom Bar is close to a pack a day, and they have ten days to go.

He can’t face telling Robin to put ten packets of cigarettes on the order. Eight, maybe?

“Five packs,” he hears himself say, and even that sounds like too many. He’s really going to have to quit at some point. And in the short term, cut down drastically now.

Her eyebrow twitches just a little, and he’s angry again suddenly. This is what women do. They judge, with an eyebrow or pursed lips, with the things they don’t say. She clicks the mouse, click, click, click, adding Benson & Hedges to the list. And not nearly enough of them.

Perversely, this immediately makes him want to smoke. He gets his packet out of his pocket with an air of defiance. “We done?”

“Yup.” Robin clicks to close the order. Strike picks up his beer and marches through to his office to smoke at his own desk.


	5. Day Four - Robin

Robin lies in bed on Friday morning long after she should get up. She needs to shower, get to her desk. The groceries will arrive soon.

She sighs. What’s the point? There isn’t enough work left to fill her day. And what is she going to do all day tomorrow?

She turns over, buries her face in her pillow for a moment.

It smells of him. Under the fresh laundry smell which is beginning to wear off, she can tell that this is Strike’s pillow. The whole bed, the whole room, the whole flat, smells and feels slightly like him. It’s both comforting and dreadfully distracting.

That’ll explain why she dreamed about him, then. Not...that kind of dream, though to her mortification she has had those in the past. But this time he was just there, in the background.

She’s probably just worried about him. He hadn’t come back upstairs after they’d finished the grocery order last night. She’d switched off her computer and gone back up, leaving him to get over whatever had put him in such a bad mood, but he must have just gone to bed.

Why _was_ he in a bad mood? She’d wondered earlier in the day if he was out of sorts - he’d been fine when they did interact, but spent much more time sequestered in his office, the door not exactly closed, but pushed to. During preparing and eating dinner he’d seemed fine. Then just like that, tense and irritable.

She wraps the duvet around herself, cosy and warm. _Get up, Ellacott._ She peers at her phone. It’s eight o’clock. She really will get up, very soon. She can hear Strike moving about downstairs, going out to the bathroom in the hall, clanking about with mug and kettle.

Robin burrows a little deeper into her cocoon. A plan is what they need. What she needs. She recognised in Strike’s sarcasm about the weekend her own fear of two whole supposedly leisure days.

 _I want to go home._ Suddenly it’s too much, being here, away from all her things, surrounded by Strike’s stuff, trapped. She’s not sure whether she’s longing for her flat or the farmhouse outside Masham, but her throat tightens.

 _Pull yourself together,_ she tells herself sternly. _No wallowing. This is not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Others have it worse._

Exercise. That always makes her feel better. On Saturday and Sunday, the building will be deserted. She can spend an hour or so walking up and down the stairs. She’s got her trainers in the bottom of her hold-all. That’ll be excellent cardio work, and will fill some time. And then she supposes there’s always Saturday night television.

Right. She has half a plan. She drags herself reluctantly from her bed and goes to shower.

The groceries arrive mid morning. Robin buzzes the delivery guy in, and waits for him to buzz again to say that all their shopping is in the hall downstairs and the door is closed. She and Strike set off to fetch it.

The bags are piled against the wall, and they ferry them up to the flat. That’s exercise in itself, and Robin makes sure they’re a relay, altering her pace so she doesn’t have to follow him up. He chooses the heavier bags, naturally, but it would make more sense for her to take them, she thinks, watching him pull himself up with the bannister. She’d have chosen to make more trips and carry less each time, but she’s careful not to trot up and down too briskly.

She ends up with the bag with the cigarettes in, and detours into the office with it. She grins to herself as she counts them. Of course he wasn’t going to manage the rest of their confinement on five packets. She shares an office with him, she knows how much he smokes, and she’d be willing to bet he smokes a whole lot more when she’s not around.

She pauses in her count. Maybe that explains his mood, and why he didn’t come back up to the flat last night.

Anyway. She looks at all the cigarettes. There really are rather a lot of them. It won’t hurt him to cut down, a little. She hesitates, then slides a packet into her desk drawer as emergency backup, and puts the other seven on his desk. That’s still more than he asked for.

Up in the flat, they pack the shopping away. Strike’s tiny fridge can’t cope with the quantity of fresh meat and milk they’ve bought, and half of it has to be taken down to the office fridge. A lot of stuff has to stay stacked on the tiny bit of counter he has, or on the table. It’s amazing how much stuff two people need for ten days.

Robin immediately makes herself a big bowl of fruit and yoghurt as a treat, and Strike grins at her and opens the biscuits. Camaraderie is restored, and with the provisions restocked, their predicament begins to feel less like an ordeal and more like an adventure again.

The afternoon drags. Robin works as slowly as she can, but by four o’clock she really has nothing left to do. A plan has been forming in her head, though. She wonders if Strike will think she’s taken leave of her senses.

At five, after she’s wasted an hour browsing gossip sites on the web, she goes and pokes her head into his office. She can see he’s not really working either.

“Right, Friday night,” she says, grinning. “Pub?”

Strike stares at her, puzzled. “We’re not allowed out. We can’t go to the pub.”

Robin smiles, and despite his confusion it draws an answering grin from him. “I know. I thought we’d bring the pub here.”

He tilts his head. “I like your thinking.”

“I sneaked two oven pizzas into the grocery order. I’ll go and get them cooking, you fetch the wine and the beer? I thought—” She hesitates. “I thought we could set up in your office, open the window?”

He nods, and his smile is warm. “Perfect.” It doesn’t need acknowledging that they both know he’ll be able to smoke as much as he wants down here. He’s not been smoking in his flat at all now she’s living in it.

Within the hour (Robin has a battle getting Strike’s temperamental oven hot enough to cook pizza), they’re established. Robin has a glass of wine and her vegetable and goat’s cheese pizza. The wine bottle is in the office fridge alongside a few Doom Bars. Strike has an open bottle of beer and a spicy meat feast pizza (she knows him so well). The ashtray and a packet of cigarettes sit to one side, the window pushed wide open. Robin is wearing her big chunky jumper so she doesn’t get cold.

They eat in companionable quiet for a while.

“Right, the weekend,” Robin eventually says, and Strike mumbles agreement, his mouth full of pizza. “We’ve got a lot of time to fill. I’m—” She hesitates, and Strike swallows and looks at her.

Robin takes a breath. “I’m aware I’m in your space,” she says simply. “I don’t know what you normally do at weekends—” she wills her cheeks not to go pink “—but I’m sure you’ll want your living room. I thought I might set myself up down here in my office. I’ve got some phone calls to catch up on, and your books, and...” She stumbles to a halt. What will she do with herself for a whole day, let alone two?

Strike smiles gently at her. “Thank you,” he replies. “I will watch the afternoon football, if that’s all right with you, but you don’t have to vacate for me. I usually do laundry, tidy up, that sort of thing.”

Robin nods. “Okay,” she says. “So we can do the laundry in the morning and hang it up, and then in the afternoon I can come down here and ring Mum and maybe Ilsa while you watch the football...”

Strike is nodding along with her. “Then we can do dinner, and maybe see what’s on the telly?”

Robin grins. “Perfect.” And it is. It just sounds very...domestic. Coupley. Suddenly she’s wondering if he spent these sorts of Saturdays with Lorelei, or back in the day with Charlotte.

She stands. “My round.”

Strike chuckles and reaches for his cigarettes while Robin takes her glass through to the main office. She refills it from the bottle in the fridge and takes it and a Doom Bar back to Strike’s desk. It feels so odd, almost inappropriate, to be in their work space in leggings and a big jumper, her hair tied back, her feet bare on the carpet.

“How is Ilsa?” she asks him, by way of making conversation. “Have you spoken to her?”

Strike blows smoke towards the window. “Yeah, she’s okay. Bit of an NHS widow again, like she was when they were first married.”

“Is Nick involved in it all?” Robin wonders what a gastroenterologist would be doing.

“Yeah, they’re reallocating them. All non-essential stuff is off, Ilsa said, and all doctors are being repurposed. Nick did a hefty chunk of his training in A&E apparently, so he’s useful on the front line, triaging, and they’re all being trained how to use ventilators and so on.”

“Wow.” Robin thinks about this for a moment. “That’s scary.”

“Yeah.” Strike stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Kind of makes the rest of us feel pretty useless.”

“Isn’t she scared he’ll catch it?”

Strike nods. “Yeah. But I don’t think she’d keep him away if she tried, which she wouldn’t anyway. Medicine is his calling.”

“Yeah.” Robin smiles fondly. “God, they must all be pretty stretched.”

Strike nods. “Yeah. Ilsa said they might end up using a local hotel for all the staff to sleep in so they’re closer on hand and don’t go dragging germs home to their families. At least neither of them is in any risk groups, Nick is fit as a fiddle.”

He pulls another cigarette from the pack and Robin says nothing. She’s never once nagged him about his smoking, and she’s not going to start now.

“How’s Wardle?” she asks.

“Yeah, he texted earlier. Over the worst. Says he’s tired but on the mend. They’re stuck in too, of course, waiting to see if he’s given it to April.”

Robin pulls a sympathetic face. At least they’re at home, though.

They pull the conversation back to more prosaic topics, discussing a few cases and the latest Lazy Nanny photographs Barclay has sent in. Presently Strike fetches a third beer and another glass of wine for Robin, and she finds herself yawning. Against all expectation, she’s tired.

There isn’t a lot more to discuss, but as always they’re content in one another’s company. They chat about this and that, and Robin yawns again.

“Am I keeping you from your bed?” Strike teases.

“Your bed,” Robin retorts, and then blushes. Where did that come from?

He smiles at her red cheeks, nodding to show he understood what she meant. “Your bed for now,” he says, and Robin nods and takes another gulp of wine and vows to watch her wayward mouth.

She sets her almost empty glass down on the desk. “I might head up, read for a bit.”

Strike nods. “I might come up and get my whisky,” he says, stubbing his cigarette out. “Nightcap.”

Robin stands and picks up her glass and the pizza plates to take back up with her. They ascend the stairs to his flat together, and her heart is beating faster all of a sudden. Of all the strangeness of this week, this feels the strangest part so far. This feels like—

 _Don’t even go there._ She enters the flat and goes to dump plates and glass in the sink. She’s tired now; she’ll wash up in the morning. Strike steps around her to reach his whisky bottle down from the cupboard and smiles down at her, that soft, crinkle-eyed smile that she is so drawn to.

“Thank you, Robin,” he says softly, and she nods. She doesn’t know whether he means the extra cigarettes that he hasn’t mentioned, or that she cooked his pizza, or that she set up a normal-ish Friday night for them, but she nods anyway. He’s so close, here in this flat that smells of him, where she’s surrounded by him, and her heart is still skipping along at twice its usual rate.

The possibility of a hug, a kiss on the cheek, hovers around them for a moment, and then Strike steps back. He raises the whisky slightly in a gesture of farewell. “Good night.”

His voice is slightly husky, and Robin yearns— for what? “Good night,” she replies, and he grins at her and turns away. She takes half a step after his retreating back, but then with a final smile he’s gone, closing the door. She can hear him clumping away down the stairs.

Robin stands in the middle of his flat, feeling alone suddenly, deflated.

She huffs a small laugh at herself. What was she expecting? It’s not like she wants— Well. They’re colleagues, that’s all. It works. It’s not like she has feelings for him or anything. That would be deeply inappropriate.

She goes to brush her teeth and climb into Strike’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really going to leave the whole virus thing out of this, it’s not the point of the story. But Lula couldn’t resist a bit of hero Nick 😍


	6. Day Five - Strike

Strike is annoyed with himself when he wakes early on Saturday morning. The day is going to be long enough already without starting it at half past seven. He’d hoped a couple of whiskies before bed would anaesthetise him and make him lie in a bit. Not on this narrow, uncomfortable bed.

He’s even more annoyed that he’s managed to dream of Robin, and not in an innocent way. He doesn’t remember details, but the fog of arousal in his brain and the aching stiffness in his groin leave no doubt as to what was going on in his traitorous subconscious.

He throws an arm over his eyes to block out the spring sun slanting through the blinds that he forgot to close, and lies and waits for his mind to clear and his body to behave itself, and then he drags himself out of his sleeping bag. He’s going to be needing a lot of coffee this morning.

He carries a mug of strong, sugary black coffee to his office windowsill and opens the window wide, and lights his first cigarette of the day. It’s his new morning routine. He supposes he should put more clothes on in case Robin comes down, but he’s pretty sure she won’t.

He smokes and gazes out of the window, and runs the previous evening through his mind.

It isn’t the first time he and Robin have had what felt like a moment of connection. But it was the first time he’d actually, for one mad heartbeat, seriously considered kissing her. He’s experienced with women, and he was pretty sure she wanted him to.

Did she, though, really? She’s stuck here against her will. He’s made her as comfortable as he can given the circumstances, but she’s still on his territory, which must make her feel vulnerable. She’d let down her guard a bit last night, he could see, and she’d never looked more alluring, wrapped in a big cosy jumper and leggings, padding about in bare feet. It had made him feel oddly protective towards her all of a sudden, feelings he was sure she had no use for, and somehow that had made him reluctant to respond to the look he thought he’d seen in her eyes. It had felt as though he’d be preying on her somehow.

 _Ridiculous_. He’s going stir crazy, stuck in these few rooms with her, starting to imagine things. He needs to get a grip and behave like her friend and colleague, which is what she needs - and is - right now.

He finishes the coffee with a second cigarette which he can allow himself now that his supplies are replenished. It had made him chuckle to see the packets lined up on his desk, two more than he’d asked for. She knows him so well, it’s a little disconcerting sometimes.

Coffee finished and cigarette stubbed out, he goes to get dressed.

Robin informs him when she appears at nine o’clock while he’s trying to force himself to concentrate on his book that she’s going to exercise. She’s in her gym clothes, and suggests he shower while she marches up and down the stairs, and then they can tackle some laundry.

Suppressing his innate resistance to being organised by a woman, Strike nods and puts his book down, goes upstairs to make himself some toast and have his shower.

Robin sets off down the stairs, and he hears her descend all the way to the bottom and then start purposely back up. For reasons he’s not sure he wants to examine, it’s annoying.

He showers quickly, pulls on clean clothes (still damp, which irks him a little more) and goes to stuff his worn clothes in the washing machine. He hesitates, seeing some of Robin’s things in there. He personally mostly owns dark clothes, so never separates his washing, but he can see a flash of the white knickers. She’s put dark stuff in too, though, and he can’t bring himself to touch her stuff (particularly the knickers, which would be very wrong), so he simply shoves his things in on top and sets the machine going.

Right. He tidies up the kitchen as best he can. (In the distance, Robin still marching, her trainered feet clanging up and down the metal stairs.) He grabs the Jif and a cloth, and quickly wipes down all the surfaces he can see, and then goes in for a quick whisk round the bathroom.

Robin has moved a few bits in, now he almost never comes in here. A little jar of cream and some make-up items have joined her toothbrush on the shelf. A tiny hairbrush. Everything so little and dainty in his big fingers as he moves them about to clean.

He hesitates to go into the bedroom, but pops in anyway. A glass of water and an empty tea mug sit on his bedside table next to her book. The duvet is pulled straight on the bed, and a gym T-shirt and a pair of leggings are thrown across it. That’s what she’s wearing to bed, then. Not that he’s allowed himself to wonder. Much.

He flicks about with a cloth. There isn’t much to do. He finds himself sitting down on the edge of the bed. It’s familiar yet not, his and not his, and he can smell the gentle scent of Robin, apples and vanilla.

There’s a strand of red-gold across his pillow, glinting gently in the sun streaming in from the skylight above, and suddenly it hits him, hard, that she really sleeps here. He’d known it in theory, but it’s a sudden jolt to his libido that Robin is in his bed every night. Stretched out or curled beneath his duvet, head snuggled into his pillow. What he wouldn’t give to—

She’s coming up the stairs. Guilty, Strike stands and makes it back out to the main room before she reaches his door. He’s cleaning the dining table when she arrives, hot and breathless and sweating. She’s been marching up and down stairs for an hour.

She grins at him, and it’s clearly done her good mentally as well as physically to get active. She goes to the sink and pours herself a glass of water, downs it in one go, and he can’t take his eyes off the long, lean line of her neck, sheened in sweat, as she swallows the water.

Robin puts the glass down and Strike forces his attention back to the table, wipes it again with an unsteady hand.

“You’ve put the washing on.” She smiles at him, and he can’t meet her gaze.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Shoved some of my things in too.”

Robin nods. “I’ll have a shower, and do my gym clothes when that lot’s finished. Might have to hang some bits in the office too. What time is the football?”

“Three-ish,” Strike replies. “I’ll watch the results come in, and then the late kick-off is at five.”

Robin laughs. “So I need to make myself scarce for, like, four hours?”

“I told you, you don’t need to vacate. As long as I’m not in your way here.”

“It’s your flat, Cormoran.”

The way she says his name always twists his heart a little. “At the moment it’s yours. I could take the telly downstairs, but the Sky connection is up here—”

She’s shaking her head. “You stay up here,” she says. “I’m going to park myself downstairs with a huge mug of tea and some biscuits, and read my book and ring my mum and maybe Ilsa.”

Strike grins at her. “Sounds perfect. In the meantime, how about a fry-up? We’ve got bacon, eggs, tomatoes.”

“Perfect. I’ll just jump in the shower. You get started.” And she goes and shuts herself in the little bathroom.

Strike stares at the door she recently vanished through. Is she—? This is new. They’ve been careful, thus far, to only shower when the other person is downstairs. But she’s just told him to start the food.

He hesitates. The shower clicks on and he hears the water start to run. Slightly bemused, he turns to his kitchen counter to wash his hands and get the food out of the fridge.

The flat is tiny, the walls thin. He can hear her pottering about. Swears he can hear clothes hitting the floor, although he’s trying not to listen. He puts a frying pan on to heat and starts slicing tomatoes.

The shower door slides and Strike tries to concentrate on the task in front of him.

She’s literally feet from him, naked—

The knife slips and Strike swears and shoves his thumb in his mouth. He scrabbles in the cupboards for a plaster, brunch temporarily abandoned, and runs his hand under the tap for a minute. It’s not too bad.

_Idiot. That’ll teach you._

He dries his thumb and tapes it up. The shower has stopped. Strike reaches into the fridge for bacon and eggs, and as he straightens up, the bathroom door opens and Robin slips past him, clad only in a towel and clutching her gym clothes, and shuts herself in his room.

Well. It’s a good thing he wasn’t holding the knife any more.

He didn’t _look_ , as such, but somehow he now has an image of pinkened creamy shoulders, scattered with freckles and still slightly damp, burnt into his brain.

This has to stop. He has to get away from her. He knows he’s attracted to her; he’s known it for a long time, but he mostly manages not to think about it when he only sees her in work hours. They’re together too much now, she’s invading his space and his thoughts and his dreams, and he needs a break.

How, though? He sighs heavily and goes back to preparing food.

They eat as they always do, him at the table and her with her plate in her lap on his easy chair, and then Robin shoos him away, insisting on washing up because he cooked. Strike is grateful to take a break, go down to his office and smoke two cigarettes back to back out of his window and try to get his wayward thoughts under control.

He’s just stir-crazy, that’s all this is. He’s wishing he could go out, longing to be walking the streets on a case, mingling, people-watching, having a purpose. There’s no work left and nothing for his endlessly busy mind to think about, so it’s straying into territories it shouldn’t. Maybe he’ll start overhauling the files tomorrow.

He lingers downstairs, reluctant to go back up, making another coffee and smoking another cigarette. He won’t be able to smoke in front of the telly like he always does, because it’s Robin’s space now.

An unexpected surge of anger hits him. Not at her; she’s as much a victim of this as he is, if not more. He’s just had enough, suddenly. She’s been here almost a week, and even though it’s not her fault and it can’t be helped, he just wants his space back. Being around her constantly when he’s so attracted to her and struggling with his wayward thoughts makes him feel...vulnerable, and that makes him feel defensive. He just wishes she could go away.

She probably does, too.

Slowly the time drags to three o’clock, and Strike takes himself back upstairs and opens a beer, sets it on the floor by his chair in front of the football. The laundry is hung about the place, on radiator and chair backs. His bedroom door is ajar but there’s no sign of Robin.

He steps across to the bedroom and taps gently. “Robin?”

The door swings away from him slightly and he sees her. She’s asleep on his bed, curled up in her leggings and jumper, her book flopped open next to her.

She’s so impossibly beautiful in sleep, her hair around her shoulders, a strand across her cheek. Strike smiles gently and pulls the door to, goes back and turns the television down a little. She might as well sleep some of the time away.

The football is an hour in when she emerges, sleepy and blinking, and the sight of her softness and vulnerability makes Strikes’s heart lurch in a way that makes it painfully clear to him, as if it wasn’t already, that this is more than just an attraction he’s battling. She smiles dreamily at him and goes to put the kettle on, and he desperately tries to ignore her and focus on the television while she makes herself a cup of tea and gathers up biscuits, book and phone and goes down to the office.

Strike sighs a huge sigh of relief and gets himself another beer, and sits in front of the television wishing he could smoke. He can hear the rise and fall of Robin’s voice as she chats to her mum or Ilsa below him.

He allows himself one cigarette, leaning out of the window, before the five o’clock match kicks off, and Robin appears as the match is ending.

“Finished my book,” she says, grinning and waving it at him. “Thank you. Shall I start dinner?”

Strike nods, and Robin starts getting pans out. She’d ordered a bag of stir-fry veg, and quickly cooks it up with some chicken and noodles, and they eat in their usual places. It’s Strike’s turn, then, to wash up, and by the time he has done that and been down to the office for a cigarette, Robin has worked out his television and found a banal Saturday evening entertainment show to watch, poured herself a small glass of wine.

She sits in the easy chair and Strike sits at the table. It’s not television he’d normally watch, but it’s quite pleasant, sat here with her and making bits of conversation about what’s going on on screen. There’s still a nagging itch in the back of his head that wants to get out, go to the pub, for a walk, _anywhere_ , but he ignores it.

“You okay?” she finally asks softly, and he knows he’s not fooling her any more than he’s fooling himself.

He sighs. He’s on his fourth beer now and it makes him honest. “Climbing the walls a bit, to tell you the truth.”

She nods. “Me too. It’s hard to be stuck in.”

“Yeah.”

She looks directly at him. “And to have me in your space.”

He hesitates slightly too long, and a smile curls her gorgeous lips.

“If it’s any comfort, Cormoran, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here.”

Now he feels guilty. He loves her company, he genuinely does. Just...not so much of it.

“I don’t mind mostly. It’s just—”

“I know. We’re in each other’s pockets. I’m sure I’m annoying you just as much as you’re annoying me.”

How is he annoying her? He’s doing his best to keep out of her way. But he just grins. “We can share the blame, fifty-fifty.”

Robin laughs. “Yeah.”

Then she sighs. “Over a week to go still.”

His face falls. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. Strike glances at his watch. It’s gone nine. “I might go down, have a nightcap, read for a bit.”

Robin nods. “Yeah, I might read too. This programme’s a bit boring, not something I’d normally bother with.”

She switches off the television and stands as he gets up to go, and suddenly there it is again. The awkward good night moment.

Strike decides to take control of it. He’s not allowing it to linger and turn into something that happens every night. His equilibrium can’t take it. He grabs his beer and cigarettes.

“Good night,” he says briskly, and leaves without looking back, closing the door firmly behind him, choosing not to imagine that she’s disappointed.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._ He’s in deep trouble here, and there’s over a week to go. He stamps down to his office and hits the whisky, hard. He needs not to think about her for a while. He just needs her to go away.

He’s going to miss her when she does, desperately.

 _Fuck_.


	7. Day Six - Robin

It’s gone nine o’clock in the morning before Robin really starts to worry.

She’d read for quite a while last night, burying herself in a new book and trying to tell herself she wasn’t hurt at the haste with which Strike had left. Why had she even wanted him to linger? She’s being pathetic, feeling unsure of herself and wanting to cling to his comforting familiarity, that’s all it is.

Plus she rather likes having him around, truth be told. When he isn’t being grumpy.

She’s had some breakfast, had her shower, read a little more. She’s checked the washing is dry and folded it, and now she knows Strike favours loose cotton boxers as opposed to the more fitted jersey shorts that Matthew wore, a piece of knowledge she’s not sure what to do with or why her brain keeps turning it over. She’d found herself smelling his T-shirt, for that lingering Cormoran smell under the scent of laundry detergent, and berated herself thoroughly.

She looks at his neat pile of folded clothes on the table, and looks at her watch again, and worries and sips her third mug of tea.

She’s heard not a single movement from below. Usually there’s something. The clank of a mug, the sound of him opening the window, the slide of the lock on the door to the office loo. A whiff of cigarette smoke. But today, nothing.

He can’t have left the building, so he must still be in bed. What if he’s ill? What if he’s down there burning up with fever?

What if he’s just having a lie-in?

She reads her book a little more. Tidies the kitchen. Refolds the clothes. Wonders about washing the towels.

At ten o’clock, she caves. She makes him a cup of tea and heads cautiously down the stairs. She opens the outer office door, and pokes her head in very slowly, calling his name quietly so he has plenty of chance to tell her to go away if he’s not suitably attired.

“Cormoran?”

Nothing. He’s not in the outer office. His door is pushed to, and she carries the mug across to it. She’s nervous, suddenly. What if he is ill—?

“Cormoran? Are you all right?”

A muffled groan emits from the study, and suddenly Robin’s shyness vanishes. She pushes open the door and goes in, heart jumping in her chest.

Strike is in bed, in his sleeping bag, and he looks awful, pale and dry-lipped. She rushes across to him as he blinks owlishly at her, confused as to why she’s intruding into his space. Robin puts the tea down next to the head of his bed and drops to her knees, her hand going to his forehead, all thoughts of keeping apart if he is ill forgotten. “Cormoran? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

She’s expecting the burning heat of fever, but his forehead is cool and clammy. She peers down at him anxiously and he squints up at her. “What?” His voice is like sandpaper, and the reek of stale whisky hits her.

 _Ah_. She glances around, and realises how fuggy the room is. The bottle of whisky on his desk is half gone, the ashtray overflowing.

This isn’t— He’s not ill. Mortified, she snatches her hand back. “Sorry—” she mutters. “I’ll just... Tea’s there.” She’s clambering backwards, climbing to her feet and backing away and turning towards the door in one awkward, uncoordinated scramble.

At the door she hesitates, half turns. “Want me to fetch the paracetamol?”

He turns over in the narrow bed so his back is to her. “No,” he mutters crossly. “Thanks,” he adds, a muffled, reluctant afterthought.

Robin nods and closes the door behind her. She pauses, her cheeks scarlet, and takes a few deep breaths.

What’s he got on his mind? He doesn’t drink like that unless he’s trying to drown something. Barely does it at all these days. So what’s brought that on?

He’s probably just stir-crazy. They both are, they’d admitted it to one another last night. She’s in his space, in his room, and he’s sleeping on that bed that, now she’s seen him in it, it clearly too small for him. And the poor man can’t even have a hangover in peace without her barging in to see if he’s okay.

Oh, well. Nothing she can do for him. He’s inflicted this particular misery on himself.

She goes back up to the flat and wonders what to do. She’d been going to suggest starting on the office overhaul today, but it looks like that’s off the cards.

Exercise again, then. She’d felt so much better yesterday, after, and she’s already in her gym clothes. She pulls on her trainers and sets off down the stairs. She has a rhythm she’s developed, trying to walk up as fast as she walks down, keeping a steady pace, enjoying the rest as she descends and the burn in her thighs as she climbs, feeling her heart rate increase and her temperature rise. It feels good to move, shakes off her anxiety somehow.

She walks steadily for an hour, and doesn’t hear a thing from the office in that time. Eventually she climbs all the way back up to the flat, has a drink of water, goes for another shower, ruminating that the first one had been a little pointless.

She dries, redresses, reads. She can hear movement from below now, the clank of a mug, a couple of trips to the bathroom just outside the office. He doesn’t come upstairs, and she doesn’t text him. He has tea and coffee down there and water and paracetamol.

There’s only so much reading she can stomach, so eventually she texts Ilsa. **You free to chat?**

Ping. **God, yes. Bored bored bored.**

Robin grins, and presses to call her friend.

“How come you’re bored?” she asks as soon as Ilsa picks up.

“Trying to stay in,” Ilsa replies gloomily. “On my own, apart from the cats.”

Robin sits up. “Have you been exposed?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. I just really don’t want to catch it and pass it to Nick. He gets enough exposure at work, and they need him healthy. So I’m trying to stay in as much as is reasonable. Working from home now, and I’m so sick of the same four walls.”

“Tell me about it,” Robin says drily.

Ilsa laughs softly. “How’s it going?”

“All right, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Robin sighs. “He doesn’t want me here, Ils. And I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want him in my flat for two weeks. He’s given up the whole flat for me, he’s sleeping on that tiny camp bed, and he’s getting grumpier and grumpier.”

“He’s Corm. He likes things the way he likes them.” Ilsa’s voice is warm.

“I know. But I can’t help being here.” Robin gazes across at the kitchen cupboards. “I should have insisted on sleeping downstairs.”

“He would never have let you. He’s a gentleman.”

“I know, but he can’t insist that I take the flat and then be cross that I’m in it!”

Ilsa sighs gently. “It’s hard on both of you,” she said. “You’re out of your comfort zone, and he’s in his but it’s not his cave any more.”

“I know. I just—” Robin stops. She doesn’t want to be disloyal to Strike. He loves Ilsa, but he doesn’t tell her everything, and he won’t thank Robin for doing so.

“Just what? Robin?”

Robin thinks of the almost-moment the night before last, and the way Strike had practically run away from her last night and then clearly gone down and drunk half a bottle of whisky. “Nothing,” she says finally. “He’s just a bit out of sorts.”

“Hm.”

“What do you mean, ‘hm’?”

“Well—”

“What, Ils?”

“You know, there is a certain — how can I put it? — tension between you guys.”

Robin feels her face flame hot, and is glad Ilsa can’t see her. “What do you mean?”

She can hear the sly grin in Ilsa’s words. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Ilsa. He’s my colleague and friend.”

“Yeah, that’s what he says too.”

“Well, then.”

Ilsa pauses. “And, you know, you’re both right. He was with Elin and then Lorelei, and you were married, and you were colleagues and friends.”

“And we still are.” Robin doesn’t like where this conversation is going. This is territory she doesn’t stray onto, things she’s very good at not thinking about. Just not quite so good at not dreaming about.

“Well, you know. Things got...blurry.”

Robin bristles. There has been no blurring, she’s sure of it. She’s _made_ sure of it. “Things are not...‘blurry’.”

Ilsa sighs. “I’m not trying to intrude. Just you guys seem so—”

“So what?”

“So _right_. You have in jokes. I see you both grinning at something I don’t get, sometimes. He orders for you at curry night if he gets there first. He wears his nice shirts to curry night, he never used to. And you’re different when he’s there. You...sparkle.”

Robin snorts. This is all fanciful nonsense. Ilsa really is bored. “Don’t be silly.”

“Okay.” Ilsa sounds resigned. “He says I’m being silly too.”

Robin closes her eyes. “You’ve...talked to Cormoran about this?”

“Yeah, and he tells me it’s all in my head.”

Robin is relieved. “There you go, then.”

Ilsa hesitates. “I don’t believe either of you. I have eyes, Robin. I see you together.”

Robin doesn’t know what to say to this. There’s a pause.

“Anyway,” Ilsa says briskly. “All I meant was, at least consider that there could be other reasons for him being grumpy. How are your parents?”

“Um... Um, yeah, they’re fine, thanks,” Robin replies vaguely, her thoughts churning. “How are yours?”

Ilsa chuckles. “Dad is driving Mum demented, but I think they’re just about coping.”

The conversation moves on, and eventually Robin says her goodbyes and hangs up, and sits and looks at the wall for a bit, thinking.

Ilsa is wrong. She’s long tried to push the two of them together, and now she wants it so much, she’s imagining things. Isn’t she?

Robin’s heart twists a little. What would she do, if Strike did...feel that way about her? Would she want that?

Contented warmth curls in her at the thought of it. She imagines, for a moment, being able to hug him whenever she wants. Imagines cuddling up close to his bulk. Imagines touching his hair, his face, his lips. Imagines—

She jumps up, face scarlet again. This is all Ilsa’s fault, putting thoughts in her head. Dinner needs making, and it looks like Strike isn’t joining her.

She makes simple pasta and tomato sauce with cheese, and takes a bowl down to him. She knocks on the office door, and he rumbles a greeting.

Robin steps in, willing her cheeks not to go pink and her heart to stop skipping. He’s sat on the sofa with a mug of tea and his book, and he looks...tired. Tired and rumpled and _gorgeous_.

“I, er, made pasta,” she mutters, unable to look at him. “Um, going to get an early night.”

“Thank you, Robin.” He smiles up at her, and just the way he says her name has her cheeks flaming.

“Night,” she says quickly, and scurries away, back up to the safety of his flat. His bed.

Damn Ilsa and her silly ideas.


	8. Day Seven - Strike

Strike wakes on Monday feeling considerably better than he had when he woke the day before. He lies there and wishes his back didn’t hurt so much, and wishes he wasn’t such an idiot.

It’s more than a little mortifying that Robin saw him yesterday, and that she now knows what a state he’d got himself into. It’s also annoying. He can’t blame her for worrying about his health under their current circumstances, but it’s just another reminder of how stuck in each other’s pockets they are. He can’t even let go, get blind drunk and sleep it off the next day without her witnessing. And it was extremely irritating to hear her marching up and down the stairs again while he lay with his head throbbing, hoping he wasn’t going to throw up.

He resolves to do better. They’re halfway through now. Next Monday or Tuesday they’ll be free, as long as they show no symptoms.

At least they have a purpose today. They’re starting the office overhaul. He picks up his phone to text Robin. He could really do with a shower before work today, and some clean clothes which he assumes are still upstairs. The ones he’s worn for the last two days reek of cigarette smoke and whisky that he presumably managed to spill at some point. The details are hazy.

They arrange that Robin will come down early and start so he can go upstairs and shower.

He wonders how she’ll be today. She wouldn’t look at him when she delivered his pasta last night. He was very grateful that she’d thought of him when he was such an arse all day and ignored her, but he wondered after her very brief visit if she was cross with him or disapproving somehow. That would be very unlike Robin, but then, he’s hardly behaving like himself at the moment.

This morning, however, she breezes into the office like always, cheerful and smartly dressed, and Strike makes himself scarce, aware he smells terrible and wanting to rectify things. His weekend clothes go straight in the washing machine, and again, there are some things of hers in there.

It’s only half a load, so he selects a quick cycle, and by the time he’s showered, dressed and breakfasted, the laundry is done. Mindful that she did the last lot, he gets it out of the machine and hangs it all up on chair backs and radiators.

There isn’t really anywhere to put Robin’s knickers except on the radiator next to his boxers. He feels inappropriate even touching them, just hurriedly shakes them out and pops them over the metal, and quickly grabs the next item.

_Not the encounter with her knickers you might have hoped for, Strike._

His mouth twists with amusement at his own wayward thoughts. Washing hung up, he heads back down to the office.

She’s made tea, and they discuss the plan briefly. There’s one filing cabinet behind Robin’s desk and two in Strike’s office, and then a couple in the main office that at the moment are largely empty. Strike had ordered them after the Chiswell case when business really began to take off, but they’ve tried to keep them empty until they need them.

Robin suggests they use the new filing cabinets as a form of archive, and Strike agrees.

They settle in their separate spaces, ready to start work. Strike opens his desk drawer, and counts the number of cigarette packets left.

 _Fucking hell, Strike._ How many had he smoked on Saturday night? He stares at his stocks in dismay. He was supposed to be rationing anyway, and now he’s seriously short.

He counts the packets, and how many he has left in his open pack, and calculates. He’s going to have to seriously cut down so he doesn’t run out.

 _Fuck_. He puts the open pack aside and resolves not to think about it. He’ll have one after lunch. Right, time to concentrate.

It’s a long, boring day, and the more bored he gets, the more he wants to smoke.

There’s a whole week of this to get through. And then another weekend. Despair tugs at him. Mid-morning, he caves in, makes a strong coffee and allows himself one cigarette.

Robin wanders through with her tea to chat about whether one of her cases needs archiving or not, and he wishes she’d go away. He wants to savour this moment, his coffee and his cigarette, without interruption. He’s short with her, and she retreats back to her half of the office, her back stiff.

Now he feels guilty as well as annoyed. Damn it all.

He tries harder after lunch, he really does. But the work is monotonous and Robin is relentlessly cheerful and he just wants to smoke, and mostly he just wants this peculiar nightmare he finds himself in to end. Robin is here all the time, filling his space with her floral scent and shimmering hair and general gorgeousness that he can’t have, that isn’t even for him to want, and he can’t retreat into his normal distractions of following leads or watching television or smoking and trying not to think about it. He’s trapped, yearning for her and hating himself for it and wishing he could have some space from her so that he can just stop feeling like this for five bloody minutes.

He’s going to have to go upstairs and join her for dinner tonight, too. He can’t avoid it for a second day running. That would be too rude.

It’s his turn to cook, and so at half past five he pins a smile on his face and asks her what she’d like, and goes upstairs to start in the kitchen. Robin stays down in the office, and he wonders if she’s sensed his need for distance.

Maybe he’s been such a grumpy shit, she doesn’t want to be around him. This is entirely possible too.

He cooks up the curry and some rice, heats the naans in the oven, pours glasses of the orange juice Robin ordered. He’s not allowing himself a beer. Then he texts her to say that dinner is ready, and hears her heading up towards him. They’re not bothering to lock the office any more.

He smiles at her as she arrives and surveys the food laid out on the table, his attempt at a truce. Is it a truce when he’s the only one being hostile? A peace offering, anyway.

Robin grins at him. “Thank you,” she says, taking the plate and the glass that he passes her. She moves to sit down on ‘her’ chair. “We’ve got a lot done today.”

Strike nods, taking his place at the table. “We have. Mustn’t peak too soon, we’ll run out of work again.”

Robin gives a wry chuckle, and spoons some curry into her mouth. She gives a little moan of appreciation that brings a smile to his face and somehow also sends a frisson of arousal down his spine. “This is really good, Cormoran.”

He grins back, ignoring his libido. “Yeah, it’s not bad for sauce out of a jar.”

They eat in silence for a while, and it feels restful, companionable. Strike can feel his tension easing a little as they enjoy their food and each other’s company.

“I spoke to Ilsa yesterday,” Robin says conversationally.

Strike nods, mouth full of naan. “How is she?” he asks thickly.

“Yeah, good. She’s working from home now and trying to stay in so she doesn’t infect Nick, but she said she might pop out later in the week for supplies if we want anything else.”

Strike immediately thinks of cigarettes, but that’s hardly an emergency request. It won’t kill him to go without. Entirely the opposite, in fact. He sighs a little and shovels more curry into his mouth.

“Yeah, she passed on bits of news from Cornwall. Doesn’t sound like her mum is enjoying having her dad at home all day.”

Strike chuckles. “I can imagine.”

Robin glances across at him, a pointed look. “It’s hard, to be quarantined with someone even if you know them well.”

There’s not a lot to say to that. She’s right, and his behaviour proves it. He shrugs, nods.

“Anyway,” Robin goes on, and she’s finished her plateful now. “My turn to wash up. I’ll make some mugs of tea, too. Unless you’re having a beer?”

He feels judged, but hopes he’s imagining it. He shakes his head. “Tea would be great.”

Robin stands and moves to the sink. She fills the kettle and puts it on, sets the pans to soak. Strike stands too, passes her his plate, uses the opportunity to escape down to his office to smoke. Post-dinner is one of the ones he’s allowing himself.

By the time he returns, Robin has tidied up and made mugs of tea. Her knickers are gone from the radiator.

“Have the telly if you want,” she says. “I’m going to go and read on the bed.”

Strike hesitates, uncertain. Is he so grouchy he’s driven her away? Or is she needing space too?

“Okay,” he replies, and she goes into his room and shuts the door.

He watches television for a bit, but she doesn’t come back out, so he takes himself downstairs to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter one today, and the next few need to be longer and I’m onto early shifts, so production might slow down, apologies. I luckily already work from home, so isolation actually means more work for me as our offices close...


	9. Day Eight - Robin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Real life took over a bit...

Robin closes her eyes under the warmth of the shower, letting the water run through her hair, tilting her head back.

_Halfway there,_ she thinks. _Just got to get through this week and the weekend._

It feels like she’s been stuck here for ever.

Her thoughts wander back to her business partner, as they mostly do these days, surrounded by him as she is. She thinks about what Ilsa said. She wonders why he felt the need to drink half a bottle of whisky. Could he really be feeling...well, if she’s honest, the way she’s been feeling? She thinks about that almost moment a few nights ago when she’d actually thought he might be about to kiss her, and about the night following when he’d practically run away rather than let it happen again. Was he really avoiding an awkward moment, or was he perhaps fearing they might—?

She shakes her head a little at herself. They’ve been getting along so well, working together, being friends and colleagues, for years now. She allowing her thoughts to get scrambled because of the situation they’re in, the many tiny intimacies it has created. If she were at home, none of this would be happening.

For the first time, she really imagines what it would have been like to be isolated at home alone. Her flat is tiny. She’d have been bored to tears. All this week, she’s been assuming that she wishes she were at home instead of stuck here with Strike, but actually...

She sighs and lingers a little longer, enjoying the heat of the water running over her shoulders. She’s all washed, she should just get out. This is wasting water.

She switches the shower off, slides the door and reaches for her towel that is hung over the edge of the sink. She grabs the corner and yanks it towards her, shaking it out to wrap it around herself.

Somehow it manages to dislodge her bra, which has been hung overnight on the tiny radiator to dry. Blinking away water, Robin dries her face, wraps the towel and steps out to retrieve her bra from the floor.

It’s fallen half into the loo. Robin squeaks in dismay and pulls it out, but one end is wet.

“Ewww...” she mutters. The toilet had been flushed, but still... She drops it to the floor. That’s going to have to go through the washing machine now. Curse this tiny bathroom.

She stares at the garment on the floor. She’s going to have to go braless for a day. In the office. _Bugger_.

There’s nothing to be done. She dries herself and goes through to the bedroom, collects up any bits and pieces she has that need washing, and stuffs them into the machine with the bra and sets it going.

She goes back into the bedroom and surveys her clothing options.

She pulls on a work blouse and looks down at herself (wondering not for the first time why men don’t bother with mirrors).

God, no. That leaves nothing to the imagination. Well, it leaves a little to the imagination, which is probably worse.

She puts on her work trousers, and adds the bulky jumper. That looks a bit silly, but the alternative is her gym clothes, and the bulky jumper gives the best and loosest coverage to disguise her lack of...support.

So, that’s decided? She hesitates, but her gym clothes are too fitted. This is the best option, warm though it is.

She brushes her hair, finishes her morning routine. The extra faffing means that she’s late now, which she never is, but what difference does it make in their current situation?

It matters. When things like that stop mattering, where are they? She grabs an apple in lieu of breakfast and hurries down the stairs.

Strike is at the kettle in the kitchenette, and turns as she bustles in. “Sorry I’m late.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t make the teasing comment she’s expecting. Instead he asks, “You all right?”

Robin nods, knowing her cheeks are going pink. “Fine.”

He steps towards her, half a step. “You sure? You’re never late, and you look...flushed. Do you, er, feel well?”

He reaches a hand towards her as though to feel her forehead or touch her cheek, but hesitates, and Robin, acutely aware of being improperly attired under her jumper, steps back. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

Strike pauses uncertainly, then nods. “Tea?” He turns back to the kettle.

“Yes, please.” Robin skirts around the other side of her desk to switch her PC on.

He doesn’t say anything more while he makes their drinks, and Robin munches her apple and checks the morning’s emails.

Strike sets her tea on her desk and hovers uncertainly until Robin is forced to stop reading emails and acknowledge him. “What’s up?” She keeps her voice as casual as she can manage.

He looks straight at her, those dark eyes focused on hers.

“I’m sorry,” he says simply.

“What for?”

“For being a grumpy bastard.”

Despite his attempts to be serious, Robin giggles, and suddenly he grins at her. “You’re supposed to say, ‘you weren’t being a grumpy bastard’,” he tells her.

Her eyes twinkle warmly at him. “But you were.”

He sighs and nods, a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I know. It’s just—” he waves his hands, a helpless gesture “—I hate inactivity. That’s why I could never do a desk job. It’s why I joined the Army. I want to be out there. It’s so frustrating, sitting and doing nothing and waiting for the guys to report in when we have so much work needs doing.”

Robin picks up her tea and cradles it in her hands. “I know. And it can’t help that I’m here.”

Strike colours a little, and his gaze slides away from hers, darts back. “Actually I think I might struggle even more if you weren’t here.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “I like your company. We give each other space. But it’s someone to talk to, someone to share meals with... You know.”

Pink-cheeked, feeling warm and fuzzy, Robin smiles, relieved. “I thought I must be annoying you, particularly the last couple of days.”

He drops his gaze. “No, I’m just an idiot who smoked far too many fags on Saturday night and is now running out,” he mutters, shame-faced.

Robin grins. She puts her mug down, slides open her desk drawer and produces the hidden packet, now wishing there were two. “Will these help?”

Strike stares at the packet, then at her. “What—?”

“I figured five packets wasn’t nearly enough, and eight would be more like it,” she says, smiling. “I kept one back for emergencies. If it cheers you up...?”

She holds them out, and Strike takes them with a soft smile. “Thank you, Robin,” he says, and the warmth in his voice makes her blush. Flustered, she picks up her tea again.

Strike looks down at the packet in his hand for a moment, then slides them into his pocket. “No more Mr Grumpy,” he says, his eyes meeting hers again. “I promise.”

Still flushed, Robin laughs a little. “Then you wouldn’t be you,” she says cheekily, and he grins again.

They pause, staring at one another, and just as Robin’s heartbeat begins to accelerate, Strike abruptly turns and picks up his mug. “Right, Ellacott, to work,” he says.

“Yes, boss,” she replies, and he casts her a sideways glance of amusement and carries his tea through to his office.

Well. Robin fans her pink cheeks for a moment. She’s hot, from her fluster and the huge jumper and the tea she’s half drunk and the— Was that a moment? It could have just been two friends chatting and joking, but his _eyes_ and the way he looked at her...

Back to work. Files needed cataloguing.

The day passes slowly. They pop back and forth to one another’s offices to discuss old cases and whether to archive them. At lunchtime Strike goes to shower. The day is heating up, the sun streaming in the windows, and Robin is uncomfortably hot now. Strike returns with sandwiches, wearing only a T-shirt over his trousers, and she stares just a moment too long, at the stark contrast of white cotton and thickly haired forearms and dark, stubbled jaw.

He pauses as he sets her sandwiches down. “Is this okay?” He vaguely gestures at his torso. “It’s just hot, and it’s not like we’ve got clients—”

Robin drags her eyes to his face. “Absolutely,” she replies hurriedly. “Good idea. I might do the same.” Then she remembers the bra - or lack of - situation, and flushes again. She’s going to have to keep the jumper on.

Strike nods and takes his sandwiches back to his office.

Still flushed and hot, Robin stares after him. He’ll be out of the way for a good hour or so now.

She drags the jumper off, sighing with relief at the cool air on her arms, on the damp, sweaty cotton across her back. Her temperature drops rapidly as she works, and she’s soon much more comfortable.

So much so that of course she forgets. She forgets her plan to pull the jumper back on later. She moves it to the back of her chair because it’s in the way, and then she’s pottering back and forth to the filing cabinets with files and of course she’s over by the cabinet, file just archived, on her way back, when he strolls through to make tea.

He stops and looks at her, and Robin has nothing to shield herself with and doesn’t dare look down, and wills her hands to stay at her sides and not fly up to cover herself and draw attention to—

His eyes, when he speaks, are looking somewhere over her left ear, and his voice contains barely a tremor. “Cup of tea?”

“Yes, please,” she replies, forcing herself to sound as normal as possible, and Strike nods and turns to face the sink. He fills the kettle slowly and doesn’t turn around. Robin closes her eyes in a moment of mortification, her cheeks scarlet.

She scuttles to her desk and picks up her jumper, folding it over her arms in front of her. “Have we got any biscuits?”

He half turns and addresses the wall near her head. “Not down here.”

Robin almost sighs with relief. “I’ll get some,” she says, and scurries out. _Shit, shit, shit..._

Upstairs, she finds the clothes she’d put on to wash earlier have been hung up, and grabs her bra from the radiator. It’s almost dry, it’ll do. She hurries through to her bedroom, and strips off the blouse, pulling on the bra and a gym T-shirt. Much better.

She grabs some biscuits from the cupboard and goes back down. Strike is just setting her tea on her desk. He looks up at her warily.

Robin attempts to brazen it out, knowing her cheeks are pink. “Thought I’d dress down a bit too,” she says, offering him a biscuit. “It is hot today.”

Strike doesn’t even look at her. He nods, concentrating on extracting a handful of biscuits from the packet. “Be a nice day to be out,” he says wryly, and before Robin can think of an answer, he picks up his tea and walks swiftly back to his office.

Robin sighs a little and goes back to her desk.


	10. Day Nine - Strike

Strike wakes early with a slight hangover and a raging erection, and lies and looks at the ceiling and sighs.

He’d managed to anaesthetise himself with a couple of whiskies last night, hoping that the fog of a little alcohol and a night’s sleep would erase that image of Robin from his mind, but his dreams had been vivid and specific, his unruly imagination wandering through all the things he had so desperately wanted to do in that moment in the office, from kissing her to leaning her over her desk to exploring those incredible breasts, clearly unfettered beneath her blouse, the outlines of her nipples clearly—

He groans, and his hand drifts to the hard outline of his aching cock jutting against the fabric of the sleeping bag, but he pulls it away again. He’s got no tissues handy, and if he has to wash his bedding... Well, Robin will know why, he’s sure of it.

He’d been unable to look her in the eye for the entire rest of the evening, afraid that she’d be able to sense the lust that was suddenly bubbling just below the surface of his equilibrium. How he’d kept his body under control in that moment and for the rest of the day was a mystery, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Robin thinking he was somehow letching over her, and so they’d both pretended that he hadn’t seen anything, and had gone ahead and eaten dinner and watched television just like always, ignoring the simmering tension in the air. He’d retired downstairs early in the end to down a couple of whiskies, give himself a stern talking-to and fall into a restless sleep.

They’re still only halfway through the week. How is he going to survive, what, five or six more days in close proximity with her when he wants her so badly he can’t think straight?

She mustn’t know. He thinks she’s probably only ever been with her husband, her childhood sweetheart, a relationship that had such innocent beginnings and progressed to marriage. She’d probably consider his feelings to be... Well, _he_ considers them to be inappropriate, anyway. He doesn’t want to be one of those men. He’s seen the way other men look at her, and it angers him that they only see her beauty, her sexiness, not the gifted, clever, resourceful Robin he knows and—

He groans again and drags himself up to a sitting position. If he ignores his body long enough, it’ll behave. Coffee and a couple of cigarettes, and back to work.

He attaches his leg, makes his way to the toilet for his morning pee, which is prosaic enough to calm his situation somewhat. He boils the kettle and stirs two spoons of coffee and two sugars into a brew that will kick-start him and hopefully drag him from the tendrils of the dream coiling seductively around his subconscious.

He carries the mug through to his office, opens his desk drawer and pulls out his cigarettes, smiling at the extra packet sat there. Fondness washes over him. She knows him so well. He’d said five, but she’d ordered eight and put one aside for an emergency. He remembers the little smile she gave him as she handed the packet over, and his heart lurches.

 _Fuck_. He is so totally doomed. He wants her desperately, he likes her and admires her, and if he’s honest he’s more than halfway in love with her. What’s he going to do when she goes home next week and they have to go back to the way things were before?

He lights his first cigarette with shaking fingers and smokes it while sipping his scalding coffee. He has to get his feelings under control before she comes down.

Somehow, he manages it. Somehow, by the time she breezes into the office with toast and tea, wearing her gym clothes and safely bra’d ( _stop looking!_ But he couldn’t stop his eyes just checking...), he’s mostly got his thoughts under control. They chat about an old case. He makes himself a mug of tea. It’s _fine_. Everything’s fine.

The morning drags. He tries to concentrate on his files, and not think about her, just in the next room. He swears he can sense the very presence of her somehow, like a current in the air.

 _Christ, Strike, get a grip._ He marches upstairs at lunchtime and has a shower so cold it takes his breath away and reminds him of his Army days. That’s the kind of self-discipline he needs right now.

When he gets out of the shower, there’s a text from Ilsa on his phone. He redresses and sits down at his dining table to answer her.

**How’s it going in isolation?**

He smiles and types back. **Yeah, OK. Robin’s just about surviving ;)**

 _Ping_. **Why? Is she struggling not being at home?**

**Nah, I’m being a grumpy shit. Stir crazy, running low on fags. Trying to do better.**

_Ping._ **Lol! Why doesn’t that surprise me? Tension much?**

He stares at his phone. **What do you mean?**

 _Ping_. **Come off it, Corm. Can cut the air between you two with a knife at the best of times.**

**Not this again.**

_Ping_. **You know I’m right.**

Strike sighs. He does, indeed, know she’s right.

Reckless suddenly, he texts back. **So what if you are?**

 _Ping_. **OMG OMG Corm, are you ADMITTING it???????** 🤗🤗🤗

He sighs. He doesn’t know what to say.

 _Ping_. **Your silence speaks volumes. Just snog her already.**

His eyes widen. **I can’t do that.**

 _Ping_. **Give me one good reason.**

His thumbs type quickly. **We’re friends. We’re colleagues. We work together.**

 _Ping_. **I said good reason.**

**I’m not good enough for her.**

_Ping._ **Bollocks. Next?**

**It’s a terrible idea.**

_Ping._ **It’s really not. It’s a great idea. You both want it.**

**What if she doesn’t?**

_Ping_. **Trust me, Corm. Women’s intuition.**

He sighs. **Not going to happen. I can’t make a move on her, it’s inappropriate. I’m her boss, she’s stuck here in my space. It’s...predatory.**

 _Ping_. **Leave it with me.**

**Fuck, Ilsa, what does that mean?**

He stares at his phone.

**Ilsa? Do NOT text Robin!**

**Ilsa!**

**Ilsa, I mean it. I’ll tell Nick about the Diamond White incident in sixth form.**

_Ping._ **Cool your beans. I’ve got your back. xx**

Strike barks a laugh and stares at his phone. Ilsa is funny and he loves her, but he’s suddenly terrified of what she might do.

He spends the afternoon with his ears straining, listening for the sound of Robin’s phone receiving a text, but nothing. He’s jumpy, and smokes too many cigarettes from his dwindling stack.

He’s through in Robin’s office, making tea, when the door buzzer goes. It hasn’t buzzed in almost a week, and they both jump, Robin dropping her pen and Strike spilling milk across the counter.

“Fuck,” he mutters, putting the milk down and moving to the entry phone to pick it up.

“We’re closed,” he barks into it, unnecessarily brusque. “Open again next week.”

“Corm, it’s me. Open up.” Ilsa.

“Why?”

She giggles. “I won’t come up. Just dropping something off.”

Strike’s eyes find Robin’s, and he can see she’s mystified. Whatever Ilsa’s up to, Robin isn’t in on it.

He shrugs and presses to let Ilsa in, and within seconds he hears the outer door slam again.

“All done! Enjoy!”

“Ilsa?” But she’s gone.

Puzzled, smiling, Robin stands. “Did you ask her to bring anything?”

Strike hangs the entry phone back up. “No. Did you?”

“No. Let’s go and see!”

She’s grinning, and his heart rate picks up. This is the most exciting thing to happen in some days. They descend the stairs together.

There’s a Marks & Spencer’s Food Hall bag just inside the front door. They open it and peer in. It contains a meal deal for two, a bottle of red wine, a packet of cigarettes for Strike, and a candle.

It’s...a date. In a bag.

Pink-cheeked, Robin looks up at him. “Did you put her up to this?”

“No! No, Robin, I swear I didn’t.” But he remembers the text conversation earlier, and feels his face grow hot.

Robin looks at him for just slightly too long, until he wants to squirm under her appraisal, and then she nods, a cheeky smile creeping across her face.

“I guess it’s dinner for two, then.”

He follows her slowly back up the stairs, his heart hammering. The working day is pretty much over anyway, so they switch off their PCs and tidy up, then head on up to the flat. Robin lays the cartons out on the table.

“Chicken tikka or lamb sagwala?” she asks teasingly, and Strike laughs. She knows full well the lamb is for him. Ilsa knows them both.

Robin readies the cartons, puts them in the oven and switches it on, and goes into his bedroom and closes the door.

A little nonplussed, Strike opens the wine and pours two tumblers. He hesitates, and decides Robin won’t mind just the one cigarette. He opens the window and leans half out of it, dangling the hand holding the cigarette out so the smoke blows away. He sips his red wine - it’s a good one, smooth - and enjoys his cigarette and tries to decide if he’s angry with Ilsa or deeply thankful for her.

It rather depends on how the rest of the evening goes.

He turns back into the room as his bedroom door opens and Robin emerges, and his eyes widen a little.

She’s wearing one of her work blouses, the pale green one that’s slightly long, and her leggings. Her feet are bare. And she’s wearing makeup. Well, more than she does in the office. Her lips are a little shiny, soft and pink. There’s smoky eyeliner around her eyes. She’s brushed her hair into loose waves.

Strike swallows hard, and smiles at her. “You look...nice,” he manages.

She grins at him. “Thank you. Can I borrow your lighter?”

He blinks, surprised. “Sure.” He fishes it from his pocket and hands it over, and Robin smiles and takes it from him. Her fingers brush his, and electricity sparks through him, but if she notices, she gives no sign. She turns back to the table, reaches into the bag Ilsa brought and retrieves the candle, setting it on a plate and lighting it. She picks up her wine, and passes his lighter back.

“Cheers,” she says softly, and clinks her glass to his. Their eyes meet, and for a moment he drowns in a sea of blue-grey, and then hurriedly drags his gaze away before she somehow sees how he’s feeling, before he gives himself away entirely.

It’s a surreal evening. The candle is lit, but it’s small, and Strike doesn’t want to switch off the harsh overhead light and plunge them into near darkness. They have a meal for two, but they still have to eat sat one at the table and one on the easy chair. He can’t work out if this is a date or not. One minute it feels like all the other evenings they’ve sat here, and the next she smiles at him or he notices the soft curve of her lip and romance hangs in the air.

Robin chats away about this and that, and he does his best to join in and ignore the overactive chatter of his mind, constantly analysing everything. They carefully don’t talk about Ilsa and her motives.

Finshed eating, Robin puts her plate on the floor, making no move to go and start the dishes as she usually does. Strike gestures to her with the wine bottle and she leans to pass him her glass. He tops up hers and his own.

“Smoke if you want,” she tells him, and he pulls a face.

“It’s your space.”

She smiles, and he could watch that smile all day... _Stop being sappy, Strike._

“Just close the bedroom door,” she tells him, and he nods. Thanks to Robin and Ilsa, he doesn’t have to ration himself so severely any more.

He stands, moves to the bedroom door to close it, catching a glimpse of clothes strewn across his bed, and finds himself wondering how many outfit combinations she had tried. He pulls the door closed with a hand that’s trembling suddenly, and moves around Robin to the window, pushing it open wide. He lights a cigarette, and Robin stands to gather up their plates and move them to the sink.

Strike smokes and gazes out at London, dark now.

He’s not stupid. She’s changed, possibly several times. She’s put makeup on. She lit the candle. Her smiles have been dazzling all evening, her eye contact lingering.

She’s still Robin, and he’s not going to take advantage. Of all the women he’s ever been with, he suddenly desperately wants to get it right this time. This is too important to fuck up with his usual habit of falling straight into bed and then being half-distant and a terrible communicator. He has to do it right.

So he steels himself, and when he has finished his cigarette, stubbed it out on the windowsill and flicked it towards the gutter below, he turns back and gives her a soft smile. “I’d better head down to bed,” he says gently.

Disappointment flickers in her gaze, and he hesitates. He doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t want this. But it has to come from her, and it has to—

“Robin...” he hears himself say, with absolutely no idea what he’s going to say next.

And she smiles, at him, that soft smile she’s smiled all evening, the one that melts him, and nods. “Okay.”

He goes across to put his empty glass on the table, and steps to the door. Robin follows him - well, she takes about three steps; his flat is tiny - and he turns back.

“Good night,” he murmurs, and his voice is hoarser than he’d intended.

“Good night,” she murmurs back, and pushes up onto her toes and kisses him.

It’s not unexpected; nevertheless he jumps at the feel of her, jolted by the electricity between them. She presses her lips to his, soft and yielding, and then gently draws back, her eyes searching his.

“Cormoran—” she looks uncertain, and the way she says his name, soft and tremulous, makes him lose his resolve suddenly. He leans down and kisses her, properly, encouraging her to open to him.

She makes a tiny whimpering sound in her throat that he will never, ever forget, that sends a bolt of lust straight to his groin as their tongues meet, and suddenly he’s kissing her fiercely. She clings to him, her hands sliding up around his neck even as his find their way to her waist, and she kisses him back passionately.

A minute drifts by as they kiss and kiss, and her nails are digging into the back of his neck now and her body is swaying to press against him, and if he doesn’t stop soon he’s not going to be able to.

He forces himself to gently disentangle, and smiles down at her. Her lips are swollen and her breath is unsteady. He can feel her trembling in his arms, and he feels ever so slightly smug about that. But it’s not like he isn’t shaking too.

“Baby steps,” he murmurs. “Good night?”

He hadn’t meant it to sound like a question, but somehow it does. Robin hesitates, then nods. “Good night,” she whispers back, and he smiles down at her. He gives her hip where his hand is resting a gentle squeeze, and then steps back, makes himself turn and go out of the door.

He glances back as she’s closing the door behind him, and she’s watching him with cloudy eyes. Their gazes meet, and suddenly she grins, and a surge of happiness hits him sideways. He grins back, and goes on down to the office.

He goes and sits at his desk and pours a finger of whisky, lights a cigarette with shaking hands. Lust sings in his veins. It had taken every ounce of his self control not to drag her into his bed. Indeed, now he’s wondering, as he remembers that little whimper she gave and blood rushes south, why on earth he didn’t just allow himself to tumble into bed with her.

Because she’s Robin, and he’s going to do this right, and wait.

Tell that to his libido. He’s never going to sleep tonight.

He stubs out his cigarette and knocks back the last of his whisky, and remembers her tiny whimper again.

With a groan, he goes to retrieve the box of tissues from Robin’s desk and drops it on the floor by his bed.


	11. Day Ten - Robin

By the time the working day is over, it’s obvious to Robin that the next move is up to her.

She’d arrived in the office, hopeful and nervous, her heart banging, after a night spent hugging her pillow like a teenager and reliving every moment of that kiss. She doesn’t think she’s been kissed like that since...well, probably ever. The taste of him, the feel of him, the sheer physical size of him—

She’d called her usual greeting and he’d answered, eventually coming though as she boiled the kettle and assembled tea. The smile he’d given her was soft and warm, his dark eyes crinkling, and she’d blushed like a girl and cursed herself for it.

But he’d made no move to touch her, merely taking his tea with a gruff thank you in his gravelly voice that sends lust skittering down her spine, and going back to his office.

The cataloguing and archiving of files is almost done. They’ve been working slowly, but nevertheless there’s not much left to do. Robin is pleased with this; for work reasons, because it has freed up space for new client files and a new cataloguing system she’s devised to make this job easier next time, but mostly now for personal reasons, because she is starting to hope that there are much, much more fun ways they could be whiling away the rest of their time in isolation.

At lunchtime Strike had gone up to shower as always, coming back down with sandwiches and tea and looking so gorgeous in his T-shirt and damp hair, she’d almost thrown herself at him on the spot. Their eyes had met and lingered in a long moment of electricity, and Robin’s cheeks had grown hotter as Strike’s gaze had grown darker, but then he’d pulled himself away and gone back to his desk.

So now here she is, upstairs, starting to prepare dinner with trembling hands, waiting for him to finish his last file and come up.

He’s taking his time, allowing her space to think, to decide. It’s her call, his absence seems to say.

Robin grins. She really is going to have to give him a push, she can tell. She puts down the knife, washes her hands and goes into the bedroom.

When Strike does appear, he doesn’t immediately notice she’s deliberately removed her bra but kept her blouse on, because her back is to him. She puts the knife down again, washes her hands and reaches for the tea towel. She turns slowly to face him, drying her hands, a cheeky smile on her face.

It’s very obvious that he’s looking, this time. He stares, in fact, for just a beat too long, before dragging his eyes to hers, eyes that have gone black suddenly, pupils blown wide.

She smiles at him, stepping forward, dropping the towel onto the dining table, and he watches her, mesmerised, unmoving.

“Well?” she murmurs up at him, her lips curving cheekily.

“Christ, Robin—” he mutters. His hands flex at his sides, but he makes no move to touch her.

She steps right up to him and his arms automatically slip around her as she reaches up, sliding a hand into his curly hair and bringing his head down to hers to kiss him.

She kisses him slowly at first, letting the moment build, pressing herself against him. His chest is hard against her breasts, his stomach soft against hers, and he growls a little, deep in his throat, and pulls her closer, his big hands splaying across her back, his tongue exploring her mouth.

The half-prepared dinner behind them is ignored as they kiss and kiss, heat mounting. Robin’s other hand slides around Strike’s back, tightening against him, and her hand drifts down to ghost over the waistband of his trousers, her fingers brushing the top of his backside over his clothing. She deliberately presses her chest against his, and then gasps as little as he breaks free of her mouth to run his lips along her jaw, kissing his way to her neck.

“Cormoran—” she groans, heat coiling in her belly, and he draws back slightly, breathing hard. His look in his eyes is a little wild, reflecting the storm that rages in her too, and for a moment they stare at one another, panting.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks, his voice rasping but his hands dropping away from her. He moves to step back but she clutches him close.

“No,” she murmurs. “I want to move to the bedroom.”

“Robin—” his eyes search hers, and she can see the desire and hope warring with— what? Does he not think they should?

“Don’t...don’t you want to?” she asks, unsure suddenly, doubting herself.

“Christ, Robin, of course I want to,” he says at once. “But...are you sure?”

She smiles up at him, and slides her hand down his arm to his. She lifts his hand and moves it to her breast, and he moans softly at the feel of her. “I want to have sex with you, Cormoran. Is that clear enough?”

His face breaks into a grin. “That’s pretty clear, yes,” he replies. His hand is moving, exploring, caressing her through the thin cotton of her blouse, and she arches a little, pressing into his touch. She smiles again, as seductively as she can manage, wondering where this side of her has come from, where it has been hiding all these years.

“Then let’s move to the bedroom,” she says, and her voice is husky. He nods, drops his hand to hers, and leads her though to his room.

She hesitates when they get there, uncertain suddenly, and Strike senses at once. He knows her.

He cups her face and kisses her sweetly on the lips. “We stop any time,” he tells her, his voice low but serious. “At any point, okay?”

Robin nods. “It’s not that,” she murmurs, “and I know. I trust you. It’s just—”

“What?”

She hesitates. “I’ve only ever been with Matthew,” she blurts, pink-cheeked, but he just smiles down at her tenderly.

“I figured.”

“So I’m not very— I don’t want to disappoint you.” Suddenly she’s thinking of Charlotte, of Elin, of Lorelei.

Strike gives a tiny growl and kisses her again, brief and fierce. “You won’t. You couldn’t.”

“But I don’t know how—”

“Sh,” he whispers gently, kissing her lips, her jaw, her neck. “We’ve got enough chemistry to sink a battleship. Just go with it.”

His words, his hands on her waist, his mouth on her neck, make it impossible, suddenly, for her to hold onto her worries. They melt away under his touches. She moves her hands to his chest, splaying across his T-shirt, and then she’s tugging at it, impatient suddenly, pulling it up. Grinning, Strike steps back a little to strip the garment off, and then her fingers are carding through his chest hair, so very much of it, and softer than she was expecting. Instinctively she moves to press herself against him, to kiss his chest, exploring with her lips as well as her hands, revelling in the way he shudders under her touches.

After a minute she steps back again, her fingers moving to the buttons of her blouse, but his hands cover hers, stilling her. She glances up at him, puzzled, and is he— Is he _blushing_?

“Could you maybe...keep the blouse on? Just for now?” he asks, hesitantly, not quite meeting her gaze, and Robin grins.

“You like?”

“Fuck, Robin, that moment in the office the other day—” his voice has dropped impossibly deeper. “That was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.” His eyes are roving hungrily across her chest, the hard outlines of her nipples through the soft cotton, his hands moving to cup her reverently.

Confidence surges. He really does want her like she wants him. “You hid it well.”

He gives a rueful smile. “It wasn’t my place to notice.”

“But you noticed anyway.”

“God, yeah.” His hands caress, and his thumbs brush across her nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through her so powerful that her knees buckle. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Robin gasps at the desire clenching hard within her now. “God, Cormoran—”

He lowers his head to her, his lips capturing her nipple through the cotton, and then her knees really do give way. They stumble to the bed, falling onto it together, and then she’s on her back and all his attention is focused on her chest, on exploring her. Robin hadn’t realised it was possible to experience so much pleasure while still clothed, as he mouths and sucks at her, his hands splaying across her, giving his whole focus to each breast in turn until she’s so aroused she can’t bear it, writhing and twisting beneath him.

Then, finally, he undoes her buttons himself, gently exposing more and more of her flesh to his gaze, to his lips.

When his mouth finally closes around her nipple without the barrier of her blouse in the way, Robin cries out in delight, her hips bucking helplessly against him. With a growl he rocks back at her, and suddenly she can feel his erection pressing against her hip and she gasps a little. Her hand reaches for it automatically, caressing him through his trousers, and Strike loses focus, dropping his forehead to her collarbone, moaning softly with pleasure as she strokes and squeezes him.

“Take your clothes off,” she whispers, desperate to feel him against her, and he nods, rolling away to sit up. She wriggles out of her trousers and knickers while he deals with his leg, and sits up to shrug off her blouse while he removes his trousers.

“Keep going,” she says cheekily, and he chuckles and slides his boxers off too. Blushing, shy - she’s only ever been naked in front of Matthew - Robin climbs into bed. Strike rolls back to her and gathers her into his arms.

“Okay?” His voice is gentle, tender, totally at odds with his cock jutting hard against her stomach, and Robin grins and nods.

“Just a bit shy.”

“Then let’s see if I can make you forget about that,” he murmurs, lowering his head back to her chest.

It takes Robin all of half a minute to forget to be shy as he worships her body, kissing her skin, telling her how beautiful she is and how much he wants her and how long he’s waited for her. She’s not sure she believes that last part, but it’s nice to hear anyway.

She strokes his back and cards fingernails though his chest hair, making him growl. She discovers that kissing his neck and gently biting at him makes him melt in her arms, shivering at her touches. Her hand finds its way to his cock again and he moans deeply, rocking into her for a blissful minute and then seizing her wrist, easing her away.

“I won’t last if you keep doing that,” he gasps, and Robin groans at the desperate arousal in his voice.

“Please, Cormoran,” she murmurs, pulling at him. She wants him so much, aches for him, feels empty—

He understands. He nods, rolls onto his back, reaches for his bedside drawer.

Robin shivers a little as he looks for the condom. He’s bigger than Matthew, all over, and she’s half nervous and half desperate to feel him fill her. She’s wet and ready for him, wants—

Strike rolls onto his elbow, digging further back in the drawer. “It’s been a while,” he mutters ruefully. Robin giggles and presses up to him from behind, her breasts against his back, her hand sliding around him and down his stomach, seeking his erection, running her fingers along it.

Strike makes a little sound of triumph as he pulls a box of condoms from the back of the drawer and opens it.

It’s empty.

“Fuck!” The dismay in his voice would be comical if she weren’t just as aghast. He flops back onto his back as Robin wriggles out of the way. “Fuck.”

He looks across at her. “I don’t suppose you’ve got one?”

For one wild moment, Robin tries to imagine having the— self-confidence? —to carry prophylactics around in her purse. She shakes her head. “No.”

“Pill?” He sounds hopeful suddenly.

She shakes her head again. “No. I was having a break, been on it years...”

Strike tosses the empty box to the floor. “Well, then.” The deep disappointment in his voice does wonders for her ego.

He turns his head on the pillow and looks at her, his expression rueful, and Robin giggles. “Well, then.”

“How many days till we can get to a chemist?”

“Um, four? Five?”

Strike huffs, his lip jutting. “ _Bugger_.”

“Indeed.”

He grins then, and rolls gently onto her, gathering her in his arms, rocking against her, making her gasp and push back at him.

“I’m so, so tempted to ask if this is a safe time of the month, or to suggest I could just—”

Robin shakes her head again. She’s already been doing the maths in her head. “Nope, sorry.”

He groans and lowers his forehead to her collarbone. “Fuck it all,” he grumbles into her skin, and Robin starts giggling helplessly, almost jostling him off her.

He raises his head and grins fondly at her. “What?”

“All this time,” she gasps, eyes dancing. “All this waiting, and now we have nothing to do _but_ this for four days, and we can’t!”

He’s chuckling too now. “The irony is not lost on me.”

“And,” she goes on, still laughing, “what are the odds that you, of all people, don’t have any protection?”

He raises an amused eyebrow. “I slightly resent the implication of your comment, Ms Ellacott,” he growls.

She snorts. “Well, you’ve always got plenty of female attention.”

Strike shrugs. “Not lately.”

Robin stops. He’s right. She’s not seen him with a woman since Lorelei. “Why not?”

He shrugs again, his gaze sliding from hers, colour creeping across his cheekbones once more.

“I was waiting.”

“What for?”

His eyes flick back to hers. “You,” he says simply.

Robin gazes up at him. Tears fill her eyes suddenly. “For me?”

He rolls off her to lie next to her, pulling her into his arms. “I wanted to be available, when you were ready. Just in case.”

“But— But I left Matt a year ago!”

“I know.”

Robin snuffles into his chest, her eyes leaking a little. “You big softy.”

He kisses the top of her head. “I know.”

She sniffs, and hugs him, and pulls herself back together a little. He smells amazing, hot and musky and slightly of smoke and mostly of him. He’s so sexy it takes her breath away.

She draws back a little and looks up at him. “So now what?”

He smiles gently down at her. “Well, if I’ve ruined the mood, we can just sleep. If not, there are plenty of other ways we can enjoy each other.”

Robin blushes. She and Matthew had tried a few things in their early years together, but later had settled into a rather predictable routine. It’s been so many years since she’s tried...other ways, as he puts it.

Strike nods and draws her into his arms again. “There’s no pressure,” he tells her gently. “Sleep on it?”

Robin buries her face in his chest again, feeling naive and inexperienced and ridiculous, and suddenly very afraid once again that she’s letting him down. She wishes she were the kind of person who could just throw herself back into the mood, especially as she can feel against her stomach that he’s very much still keen, but she’s suddenly doubting herself and overthinking everything.

“Robin.” Strike’s voice is gentle, and his finger under her chin lifts her face gently to his. She meets his gaze hesitantly.

His eyes are dark, tender. “Would you like to sleep with me? As in, actually sleep?”

Tears again, suddenly. She’s not sure where all these waterworks have come from. She nods.

Then he grins, cheeky. “Can we eat first, though?”

Robin’s hand flies to her mouth. They’ve forgotten all about dinner. Suddenly she’s giggling again. “Yes, let’s.”

He cups her face in his hands again and kisses her softly. “We have plenty of time, I hope,” he says. “Let’s go and eat.”

Robin nods, and Strike rolls away and reaches for his clothes.


	12. Day Eleven - Strike

Strike wakes on Friday quite unable to believe his luck. Robin is curled next to him, her soft warmth snuggled close, her hair against his cheek, her scent all around him. He rolls towards her and wraps an arm around her, pulling her nearer, and she mutters a little in her sleep and burrows even closer.

He knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but there’s no one to see, so he allows himself these few minutes of pure happiness.

He’s also very glad to be back in his own bed and not still on the narrow, uncomfortable camp bed. He’s just had the best night’s sleep he’s had in almost two weeks, and his back is thankful for it.

He lowers his head a little and breathes the scent of her hair. She smells warm and cosy and of the floral shampoo Ilsa sent. He can’t quite believe she’s here, in his bed, with him.

They’d cooked dinner the night before and then gone to bed together as though they’d been doing so for years. Robin had blushed a little as she changed into her gym top, her back to him, and then climbed into the bed while he stripped down to T-shirt and boxers and dealt with his leg. She’d made no move to take things further between them, and so he had draped an arm over her and they’d gone to sleep.

And now here she is, warm and close and impossibly soft and beautiful, and much as he longs to stay right here, his body is betraying him already, his cock hardening rapidly at the feel of her. He reluctantly rolls away so as not to fuel his desire any further, and makes his way as quietly as he can to the bathroom.

When he returns, she’s still asleep. He hesitates, but he’s already half attached his leg, so he swipes his trousers from the floor and goes back to the living room to dress. He boils the kettle, makes tea, and still she sleeps, so he leaves a mug on the bedside table and takes his down to his office to smoke.

He’d been going to go back up, but now he’s down here he idly picks up a case he’d left out of the archiving process, an old one from the previous year that they’d never solved. It had annoyed him at the time, and yesterday he’d left it on his desk to have another look at it. He sits down and opens it now, idly leafing through papers, wondering if distance will have given him a fresh perspective. He lights another cigarette.

Robin is awake; he can hear her pottering around upstairs. He hopes she didn’t mind waking alone, but at least she’s got the space now for her morning routine.

She comes straight downstairs, though. She’s pulled leggings on under her gym shirt, and her hair is still rumpled from bed, her eyes soft, her mug of tea in her hand. He looks up from stubbing out his cigarette as she comes in, and knows he’s wearing the goofy grin again and doesn’t care.

“Morning,” he says. He indicates the file on his desk. “Came down for a smoke and started reading this.”

“Morning,” she replies, her answering smile taking his breath away. She comes round the desk and peers at the file. “Ah, the McCaffery case. We never did get to the bottom of that.”

Strike sighs. “No. It must have been an inside job, it’s the only possibility. But we couldn’t prove it.”

Robin slides the file away across the desk, flipping it closed, and perches her bottom next to his arm. “Are we working today?” she asks, arching a cheeky eyebrow.

Arousal surges through him at once. “If you want to,” he replies, gently teasing, and she grins and sips her tea.

“I can think of better ways to fill our time.”

Strike picks up his mug and sits back, enjoying the gentle flirting. “Can you? I suppose we could drink tea and chat.”

Robin giggles and shuffles along, sliding her leg over his so that she’s sitting on his desk with her legs either side of his now. “We could,” she agrees, grinning down at him.

“Or...” Strike sets his mug down and slides a large hand up the outside of her thigh and around to her bottom. He squeezes it gently and she chuckles a little and half turns to put her tea down next to his.

“Or...?” she asks, with a little wink that sends a bolt of lust through him.

He can’t pull her onto his lap while she’s facing him; her knees are already restricted by the arms of his chair. But if he sits up, he’s at the perfect height to nuzzle across her breasts, and he thrills to the soft moan she emits and the way her nipples pucker and harden under his touch. He explores her with his mouth, gently sucking at her.

“I like or,” she gasps, her hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. With a low growl, Strike finds the hem of her top and pushes it up, exposing one breast to his hungry gaze and mouth, and Robin groans and rocks her hips on his desk as he sucks and nibbles gently at her.

It’s like all his dreams have come true. He’s not often allowed himself to imagine this scenario, but he’s dreamed it on more than one occasion. Still nuzzling at her breast, Strike slides his hand slowly over her thigh and cautiously, gently runs his fingers across the front of her leggings, dipping down to stroke underneath and drawing his fingers slowly back up.

Robin moans softly and rocks forward, pressing down onto his fingers, and he takes this as an invitation and does it again.

Her hands in his hair tug impatiently, tilting his head back so she can lean down and kiss him. She tastes of toothpaste and tea and Robin. She kisses him fiercely while he strokes her through her leggings, and she moans a little into his mouth.

He can feel the heat of her under his toying fingers, and as he dips down again and she rocks onto his fingers, the underneath of her leggings is hot and damp. Fierce pride thrills through him that she wants him this much, that he can turn her on this much. He flicks his thumb gently across her clit and she jumps a little and groans into his mouth.

He’s desperately uncomfortable now, and is forced to take a moment to readjust his erection where it’s straining against his fly. Robin breaks the kiss, her head dropping back as he swipes his thumb against her over and over. She’s panting now, her eyes closed, and he watches her, delighted and fascinated to see her submit to the pleasure he’s giving her. Her legs spread wider for him and he presses harder with his thumb, making her moan. She’s starting to tremble now.

He’s going to be able to send her over the edge, he can sense it. He desperately wants to do this for her, to pleasure her, and he leans forward again, his thumb working steadily, relentlessly, and takes her exposed nipple back into his mouth.

With a soft cry, Robin curls over him, jerking in his arms, gasping, and he pushes her through it as her hips buck against his hand. When she goes limp against him, he wraps his arms around her, her forehead on his shoulder, panting against him, gradually stilling.

She sits up, and he’s never seen her look so incredible, her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy, her smile soft and languid.

“Wow,” she grins at him, and kisses him.

He smiles against her mouth as they kiss, and then she slowly draws back again.

“Imagine what you could do with my clothes off,” she says cheekily, and he laughs, a deep rumble.

“I hope I get the chance to show you,” he replies, and she flushes a little more and nods.

“So...” she murmurs. “Shove your chair back.”

“Why?” He knows it’s a stupid question even as he asks it.

“Because I’m not strong enough to move the desk,” she replies drily, pushing him away from her. Strike braces his good leg and slides his chair back, and she slips off the desk and onto her knees on the floor in front of him.

“Christ, Robin, you don’t have to—” But beneath his shock, _god_ , he wants her to. That may be another of his recurring dreams.

She smiles up at him, her hands going to his fly, stroking across the bulge beneath, making him see stars.

“I know,” she says. “But I want to.”

She hesitates. “I don’t know what happened last night,” she says slowly. “It was all just so much, all at once, and I was worried I wouldn’t be good enough. But the way you just rolled with that, and went to sleep without asking me for more...”

She trails off. Strike says nothing, sensing that she needs to say her piece and suddenly wondering if her husband had ever asked for things from her even when she hadn’t wanted to do them.

“Well, anyway,” she goes on. “This is our only option until I can get another grocery order here, which I’ll do as soon as I get to my desk. But I’m not going to waste time waiting.”

He nods dumbly, and then she’s undoing his trousers and pulling them open, and her hands are on him and then suddenly her mouth, and he collapses back into his chair with a groan.

She’s hesitant at first, and bolts of electricity run through him at her gentle touches and soft licks. Strike takes deep, shuddering breaths, his head thrown back, his body quivering with pleasure as her mouth caresses him. His hands clutch at the arms of his chair. He longs to slide his fingers into her hair, but isn’t sure if she’d want that.

She takes her time, exploring every hard inch of him from base to tip with her hands and mouth and tongue, learning what he likes, what makes him gasp and shudder, what makes him tense and moan. Soon he’s whimpering and rocking, trying not to thrust up against her but rapidly losing control of his body’s responses to her as the pleasure builds in his groin and at the base of his spine, turning his bones liquid.

He moves a tentative hand to her head as she strokes him, and she makes a small sound of encouragement, pressing her cheek into his palm, and he slides his other hand into her hair. Feeling her head move as she works is incredible. He risks a look, afraid it might send him over the edge, and indeed the sight of that amber hair spread across his lap makes him groan deeply and drop his head back again, his eyes closing. It’s too much.

She works up and down his length with mouth and hands, returning to the place she’s found just below the head of his cock that makes him groan when she sucks and licks at it. He’s not going to last much longer. Her fingers massage him gently.

Strike is lost on a sea of pleasure, all his nerve endings fizzing with electricity. Nothing in the world exists except her mouth and hands. She seems determined to hold him on the brink, slowing her movements just a little, and he shudders and groans in delight at the feel of her tongue sliding against him. The tension within him is torturous, but it feels so good, he both longs for release and wants her to go on for ever.

Just when he can’t take any more, Robin senses it somehow. She wraps both hands around him and draws them up and down firmly, sucking at that sweet spot she’s found and swirling her tongue against it, and the pleasure swells and breaks over him. His back arches and with a long, low groan he’s pulsing in her hands, spilling into her hair, thrusting up against her tongue, convulsed in pleasure. She caresses him gently until he finally sinks back into his chair, and then she sits back and smiles at him.

Strike gazes down at her, dazed and panting, floating in bliss. That may be the best blow job he’s ever experienced. “Wow,” he says at last, catching his breath, echoing her appreciation earlier. “Just...wow.”

Robin grins and climbs up to sit on his good leg, and he slides his arms around her while she hugs his head to her chest and he buries his face in her and breathes her.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against her.

Robin chuckles and kisses the top of his head. “What I am right now is sticky,” she says, and he laughs, still nuzzling against her. “I’m going to have a shower,” she adds. “I’d ask you to join me, but there’s barely room for one person in your bathroom, let alone two.”

She draws back and looks down at him and winks. “My bathroom, however...”

Strike snorts a laugh. He feels incredible, on a high of endorphins and satiation. Robin stands, and he readjusts himself and does his trousers back up.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she says. “And then we can do some actual work, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” he growls, and she giggles and heads towards the door. “Come on up, then?”

“I will,” he promises, reaching for his cigarettes. “Five minutes.”

Robin wrinkles her nose at him fondly, and then she’s gone.

Strike lights a cigarette and leans to push the window open, and sits back in his chair to smoke.

 _Christ_.

Judging by last night and this morning, if that’s how compatible they are even without full sex... Well. They need to get some condoms delivered, fast. With a bit of luck they can get a grocery order for tomorrow.

He draws on his cigarette and sighs, deeply contented, his body humming with pleasure still. How did he get to be so lucky?

_Don’t fuck it up, Strike. Really, really do not fuck this one up. This matters. This—_

He’s in love with her. He knows he is. Her warmth, her beauty, her vulnerability, her strength. She’s everything he could have dreamed of.

 _Baby steps, remember._ Too soon to go saying things like that, he’ll terrify her. Maybe in a few months, if it’s still going well...

He stubs out his cigarette. His body is languid and relaxed, his eyelids heavy. He can hear the shower running upstairs. There’s no hurry.

Strike lays his head down on his arms on his desk for a moment. It’s not long before snores echo around his little office.


	13. Day Twelve - Robin

When Robin wakes for the second time on Saturday - she’s not even sure it’s still morning - it’s partly because she’s hungry and partly because Strike, stretched out on his back next to her, is snoring like a steam train.

Grinning fondly, she pokes him on the shoulder until he rolls onto his side and quiets, and then she lies and gazes up at the skylight. A soft smile steals over her face.

They haven’t managed to get out of bed yet today. She supposes they should probably wash the sheets. That’ll be a job for this afternoon. After some food.

She idly wonders what to eat. They’re starting to run low on food now. They’ll make it to Monday or Tuesday - it’s only another couple of days - but the combinations might get a bit weird. It may have to be curry with pasta tonight.

They’d both been dismayed, leaning over Robin’s computer yesterday afternoon, to discover that none of the supermarkets had a delivery slot available until the end of the week. Everyone must be getting deliveries now. So they hadn’t bothered - by Tuesday at the latest they’ll be able to go out, assuming neither of them has symptoms before then, a possibility that surely gets less likely now with every passing hour. It’s been twelve days since they saw Wardle. It’s likely they’re safe.

She wonders what life will be like when they go back to normal, when she goes back to her flat. She’s been assuming she and Strike will carry on seeing each other, that this isn’t just a way to pass the time, to him. It isn’t to her; it’s something she’s wanted for a long time but was too afraid to hope for or make a move towards.

Strike mumbles a little in his sleep and rolls towards her, throwing a long, heavy arm over her, and Robin smiles and presses close to his warmth. His head rests on her shoulder, his curly hair brushing her chin. It’s too long already, and she wonders how often he has to go to the barber’s to keep it under control.

She can feel his stomach against her hip, soft and warm. He’s so hairy, even more than she was expecting from the odd glimpses she’s seen, and she likes it. Matthew was all lean, long lines and smooth skin, good-looking, definitely, but not nearly as sexy as Strike. There’s something about his size, his masculinity, his power, combined with his restraint and slight uncertainty around her that’s deeply attractive.

She kisses the top of his head, pressing her lips into those unruly curls. This is so much more than just a fling, for her. What she feels for him is— It’s big and powerful and a little scary, but it’s also deep-rooted and anchored in their friendship and in how well they know each other now. Strike makes no pretence to be anyone other than who he is, puts on no false face to the world, and she likes that. Maybe even loves it.

She wonders where her phone is, what time it is. She needs to shower. They’d spent a long, lazy spell after they first woke up (late, after indulging in a bottle of wine last night before tumbling into bed) exploring one another with soft lips and stroking hands, building their mutual pleasure slowly until Robin was gasping and convulsing in his arms even as he spilled across her stomach as she stroked him in return.

Before she could even think about hunting for a tissue or discarded T-shirt, he’d wrapped himself around her in a sticky bear hug, making her giggle, totally unfazed by the sweat and more between them. She thinks she likes this, too - Matthew would have been running for the shower in similar circumstances, meaning that it always felt a little...unclean. Strike just accepts such things as part of life.

Still, shower and clean bedclothes later, she thinks.

In the living room, she hears her phone ping with an incoming text. She sighs guiltily. She’d been ringing her mother regularly, but hasn’t rung for a few days now. Maybe they think she’s poorly. She’d better send at least a text saying she’s fine.

She wriggles gently free of Strike’s arm, smiling as he mutters and clutches at her as she slides her shoulder out from under his head. She has no idea where her clothes from last night are, and it doesn’t really matter. She skirts around the bed and goes through to the living room.

It feels weird and yet also oddly natural to be wandering around his flat naked. Matthew had always praised her in her efforts to be slimmer, and so in her less-slim times she would pull on a dressing gown or a loose T-shirt, anxious about the round of her stomach or the wobble of her bottom. Strike has done nothing but worship her curves since he’s had access to them, murmuring to her how beautiful, how gorgeous she is, his eyes following her hungrily, and she feels sexier than she’s ever felt in her life under his gaze.

She picks up her phone. It’s not her mum, it’s Ilsa.

**Nick said I mustn’t text but the suspense is KILLING ME!!!! How was date night?** 😜😜😜

Robin grins. Ilsa has lasted three whole days, that’s pretty impressive.

Mischievous, she texts back merely:

🥰🥰🥰😜😘

..and heads to the bathroom.

She hears her phone buzz several times more, and giggles to herself as she uses the loo, showers quickly, brushes her teeth. She goes back to the main room, wrapped in a towel now, fills the kettle and puts it on for tea, and picks up her phone again.

There are five messages, and she laughs at them.

**Really? Really!!! Yay! I need details!**

🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗😍😍🎉🎉

**Please tell me you’re not joking. I love you both so much, this is perfect! xx**

**Robin? Are you there? I’m still in suspense!!**

**Put him down and text me!!!!**

Chuckling, Robin sits down to message back as the kettle starts to chunter.

**Date night was perfect thank you. Lovely dinner, lovely chat, and a kiss** 💋

_Ping_. **SQUEEEEEEEE** 🤗🤗🤗🤗 **Oh my god, FINALLY!! And? And?**

Robin smiles softly. **Nothing that night, he went down to bed like a gentleman. Since, tho...** 😜😜🔥🔥🔥

_Ping_. **Oh, Robin, Robin, that’s fab, yay! I’m actually crying... x**

Robin smiles, feeling a little tearful herself suddenly. Ilsa does love them.

_Ping_. **So...how is it?** 😜😜😜

Robin hesitates.

After their fruitless attempt to get a grocery delivery yesterday, Strike had suggested they try Amazon (backed up with orders, struggling with next-day delivery) and Boots (yes, but the next day was Saturday so they won’t deliver now till Monday or Tuesday) and then they’d given up. Robin had wondered about asking Ilsa, but he hadn’t suggested it, and they’re his friends more than hers.

On the other hand, she’s pretty sure he’ll get over the embarrassment fast with the distraction she’ll be able to offer, and... Well, if she’s honest, she doesn’t want to wait. He seems happy to leave it until they can get to a chemist, or maybe he just doesn’t want to rush her. But Robin wants— Well, she wants what she wants, and she’s not going to spend any more of her life feeling like that’s not acceptable for a woman somehow.

Her thumbs skitter across the screen.

**I don’t know, we haven’t done “it” yet - no condoms!** 😩😩 **But everything else has been rather delicious, shall we say...**

_Ping_. **You’re kidding me. Cormoran Strike doesn’t own condoms?????**

Robin grins. **He had an empty box...**

_Ping_. **LOL!! That’s more like it!! Hah. Want a delivery?** 😜

_God, yes, please..._ Robin thinks.

**Well, er, if you were passing...** 😜😊

_Ping_. **Leave it with me. We actually just got back from shopping. Nick’s got a rare day off, they insisted. He’s worked 12 days straight.**

Robin feels guilty now. **Don’t make a special trip, honestly.**

_Ping_. **Well, honestly? Kind of planned my afternoon to be exactly like yours...isn’t, lol. But Nick’s back on the early shift tomorrow, he can drop some in?**

Robin closes her eyes briefly. But she supposes that if Ilsa knows, then Nick does.

**That would be great, thank you xx**

_Ping_. **Lol! I’ll prime him for his secret mission. Operation Durex** 😂😂😂

Giggling, Robin texts back. **Thanks, Ilsa. You’re a** ⭐️

_Ping_. 😘😘 **I’m off to sweeten my husband up before I tell him he has to be the condom fairy. See you soon - yay, nearly done isolating! x**

Robin grins. **Yeah, it’s not quite as boring as it was...**

_Ping_. **LOL!! Love you both xxxxx**

Robin sits back and looks at her phone, wondering what she’s done and if Strike will mind. Oh, well. It’s happening now.

The kettle boiled ages ago. She reaches to flick it back on, and quickly texts her mum an update, telling her all is well and they’ve got a lot done in the office - it’s not a lie - and then, grinning, she goes to make two mugs of tea and take them back through to the bedroom.


	14. Day Thirteen - Strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - pesky work!

On Sunday, it’s Strike’s turn to wake alone, and he can sense Robin isn’t in the flat. He lies and listens for a few moments. Where on earth can she be?

He stretches, relaxed and sated. They’d barely left the flat yesterday - he wouldn’t have done at all if it weren’t for the occasional need to top up his nicotine levels driving him down to the office. His cigarette consumption has gone down drastically in the last few days; his hands and mouth have found far better occupations.

Still no Robin. Maybe she went down to the office for the milk. He needs to pee, so he rolls out of bed and hops, naked, using the beams and ropes for support, to his tiny bathroom, where he brushes his teeth too for good measure in case Robin is planning to come back to bed. Two mugs with tea bags in them are waiting by the gently steaming kettle. She can’t be far.

He hears her padding steps as he makes his way back to bed and climbs in to wait for her, anticipation rising. He hears her kick off her trainers, reboil the kettle, pop to the bathroom. In a couple of minutes, she’s entering the bedroom, a mug of tea in each hand, her hair a riotous golden tangle, clad only in his shirt from yesterday. It’s long, but she’s tall, and when she bends over to set his tea on the bedside table, her bottom peeks out from beneath. It’s ridiculously sexy, and he slides a hand across the curve of her arse with a rumble of appreciation.

She chuckles and grins down at him. “Could be my new office wear,” she says. “What do you think?”

He growls a little, his hand still exploring. Beneath the sheet, his cock is already starting to stir. He wonders, as a slight aside, if he’ll ever get enough of her.

“Then I would never get any work done.”

She puts her tea down too and turns to him, pushing him down onto his back and climbing over him to straddle him, only the sheet between them. “Good thing it’s Sunday.”

She hesitates a little, and spots of colour steal across her cheeks. Her eyes watch his uncertainly.

Strike stills his hand, which was already creeping up from her waist towards the swell of her breast beneath his shirt. It’s so impossibly sexy, seeing her curves in his dark blue cotton. “What’s up?”

She ducks her head a little and peeps at him below her hair, so cute it makes his heart constrict. Every time he touches her, it’s more and more difficult to hide his feelings, how hopelessly far gone he is, how totally bound to her in every way.

“Um, I’ve got something for you. For us,” she corrects herself, and her colour deepens.

She’s not sure how he’s going to react, he can tell. He smiles softly to reassure her. “What is it?”

Blushing hard now, Robin pulls a box from his shirt pocket and shows him.

It’s a pack of condoms.

Strike’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Where did you—? Ilsa.” He answers his own question before he’s finished asking it.

Robin nods, biting her lip anxiously. “Well, it was Nick, actually. Um, is that okay?”

Strike closes his eyes for a brief moment. He is going to get some serious banter over this. This is chortling-into-a-pint fodder for Nick for weeks, if not months. On the other hand, it’s not like his friend is ever truly cruel in his teasing, and it’s so, so going to be worth it. _Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Strike._

He grins up at her anxious face. “It’s very, very okay,” he says, flexing his hips under her a little so she can feel exactly how okay it is, nudging up beneath her.

Relief sweeps across her features. She puts the box next to the mugs of tea and leans down to kiss him, long and slow.

“I was afraid,” she murmurs when she finally surfaces for air, “that you’d think I was overstepping the mark. But Ilsa offered, and I—” She breaks off and buries her face in his collarbone.

His hands creep across her back over the cotton of his shirt, pulling her closer against him. It might be his ego, but he wants to hear her say it. “And you—?” he encourages gently.

“I want you,” she mutters into his neck. She draws back a little and he turns his head to peer down at her face nestled on his shoulder. “Not that what we’ve done so far hasn’t been... well...” she goes on, blushing again, and Strike is suddenly remembering the taste of her last night, the way she’d opened up to him once she let go of her inhibitions, and now his cock is aching hard beneath her.

“But I want you,” she says again. “Properly,” she adds, and he leans and kisses her, messy with teeth and tongues, noses getting in the way because of the awkward angle, fierce with pride that she wants him so much. He’d convinced himself to wait, not wishing to alarm her with how desperately he, too, has wanted this, telling himself it’s only a few days and he can just keep himself under control and enjoy what they can do. Knowing she’s been feeling the same is rather gratifying.

It’s also incredibly sexy, and he’s rocking up against her now as she presses down onto him. He can feel the heat radiating from her core through the sheet. She pulls herself back up over him to kiss him deeply, sliding against him, and the sheet between them grows damp, setting him on fire.

It’s different, this time. This is like the first time, flames igniting and taking off, sweeping through them. Robin moans into his mouth, rubbing against him, and Strike growls back, their mouths straining against one another, fierce kisses and gentle bites. She tugs on his lower lip and he bucks helplessly against her, and Robin rocks forward enough to shove at the sheet between them. Strike kicks at it where it’s tangled around his leg, and Robin shuffles her knees, and in an awkward scramble they manage to get rid of it and she’s pressing herself directly against his erection, sliding along his length, so wet and hot and delicious that he groans and bucks again.

She sits up, and he slides against her and suddenly he’s almost inside, jerking his hips away even though he desperately wants to thrust up into her. Robin gasps and angles herself so that he thrusts up in front of her, and she reaches for the box of condoms.

Strike would have said, in a calm moment, that the first time they do this “properly”, as Robin put it, would be slow and tender and gentle, but the fire in his veins is all-consuming. Robin scrabbles a foil packet out of the box and rips at it impatiently with fumbling fingers, sliding it free and then hesitating, looking down at him.

“Um, it’s been a while since—”

“Here.” He takes it from her and rolls it into place swiftly. Robin grins down at him, her eyes blue storm-clouds, her breathing unsteady. Strike pauses them a moment to work at his shirt buttons where they sit between her breasts. He wants to see her, all of her.

She helps him, stripping the shirt off over her head, making her already mussed-up hair even wilder, and he’s struck by her beauty suddenly as she positions herself above him, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts swinging towards him. She’s so beautiful and perfect and sexy, and for a moment he stills, unable to believe she’s here and his.

Then she slides slowly down onto him, and all he can think about is her heat enveloping him and the pure, tight, hot pleasure of it.

“Fuck, Robin,” he groans as she reaches the base of him and anchors herself, her eyes wide as they meet his. She stops, panting, adjusting, getting used to the feel of him, and in the back of his mind, a stab of fierce ego that he’s not proud of, as he thinks he must be bigger than her ex-husband.

His hands are on her hips, holding her gently, supporting her, and he trembles with the pleasure of it, with the effort of not thrusting up into her as he longs to do, his desire only reined in by the thinnest of threads.

Her eyes meet his, coming back to focus on the external, and she smiles down at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes heavy, her heat all around him, and he nearly says it in that moment, nearly spills out the words he’s not allowing himself to say yet. He smiles back up at her and realises she’s trembling just as much as he is.

Slowly Robin begins to move, and it’s incredible, the gentle slide and push, the increasing pace, the thrust and give. She pushes her knees a little wider and takes him deeper, leaning over him, her hands by his head, her hair tumbling around his face, her soft moans as much as the swivel of her hips driving him on. It’s more than he could ever have imagined, and within a few minutes the pleasure is swelling within him so fast, he has to stop or he’ll lose control.

“Robin—” he groans, clutching at her hips to still her, and she slows. He’s throbbing within her, pleasure threatening to break.

He can see her confusion, and he smiles to reassure her, panting. “I just need— You’re too good, I’m not going to last like this. Can we move?”

A shy, smug smile that makes his heart lurch creeps across her face, and she slips off him and lowers herself down next to him, pulling at him. Whimpering at the loss of her, Strike rolls onto her and slides back into position with a groan.

He sets a slow pace, shallow thrusts that he knows he can control. She’s shivering beneath him, her nails digging into his lower back, trying to tug him deeper. The rock of her hips makes him thrust harder, and pleasure sweeps through him again.

Even like this, where he’s in control, it feels like it could be too much. This isn’t a problem he normally has at all, but this is Robin, and he’s waited so long and she feels so incredible.

He focuses on her, lowering his head to her neck, nipping gently at her as he moves within her. Her moans are hot in his ear, and she’s trembling, and he knows he’s getting her there. He shifts up her body a little, hitching forward with his elbows to change the angle, and Robin cants her hips so that he slides against her clit as he moves into her, and her head drops back as the pleasure starts to take her.

He slows just a bit more, withdrawing and sliding all the way back in, concentrating on long, slow thrusts and feeling her tremble against him on every stroke. Her muscles grip him, and he knows he’s not going to last like this either, but she’s panting, high, shallow breaths now, her fingers digging into him hard enough to hurt, bolts of pleasure-pain.

“Please, Cormoran—” she gasps, rocking her hips, trying to drag him faster, and he obliges even though he knows he can’t keep it up for long. He thrusts harder, and then suddenly she gives a little high-pitched whimper and there’s no stopping. Their movements become erratic, wild, Strike jerking into her and Robin bucking up against him, and he can’t stop it, the swell of pleasure that rises up in him like a tidal wave. He’s going to come, he can’t hold back the inevitable, but Robin breaks with him, gasping and convulsing beneath him as the world goes white with the pleasure exploding through him. He knows he’s not quiet but he can’t care, lost to the pleasure of his orgasm that’s only heightened by the pulse and flutter of hers.

He carries on gently rocking after it’s over, chasing every last twitch of pleasure, enjoying the way she shudders beneath him, until finally his trembling arms give out and he collapses onto her, his panting breath hot in her ear.

Robin wraps her arms and legs around him, clutching him close, still shaking beneath him, their sweat-slicked skin sliding as they breathe hard, gradually stilling.

Strike raises his head and kisses her, gently, and draws back to gaze down at her. “Okay?”

She looks as dazed and amazed as he feels, and she’s so beautiful, her eyes cloudy and cheeks pink, soft tendrils of hair sticking to the sweat at her temples. She nods vigorously, and he chuckles.

There’s a moment, again, where he nearly says it, where his heart nearly bursts out of his chest and spills words out of his mouth, and for a moment, as he looks at her, he sees the way he’s feeling reflected back at him, and his heart sings.

She smiles up at him, luminous, and it doesn’t need saying. He kisses her again, soft and sweet, while she hugs him even closer, and then he slowly, reluctantly draws back, sliding a hand between them to hold the condom in place and then rolling away to deal with it.

He can hear her shuffling behind him as he wraps the condom and drops it to the floor to sort out later, and when he turns back she’s hauled the covers back into position. Grinning, he snuggles down with her as she covers them both up, making a warm cosy nest, and pulls her into his arms. She lays her head on his chest and he wraps his arms around her, feeling her heart rate gradually slow, feeling her grow boneless and heavy against him.

“Tea’s gone cold,” she murmurs, and he chuckles.

“I’ll make more in a minute.”

She nods against him, tightens her arm around him. “In a minute.”

Strike gazes at his ceiling, but his eyes are heavy and keep drifting closed. A nap is inevitable after an encounter like that, he can feel the pull of sleep dragging him down, unstoppable. His last conscious thought is to wonder, again, how on earth he got to be so lucky.


	15. Day Fourteen - Robin

When Strike appears back upstairs after a morning cigarette with his coffee, Robin is at the window of the flat, peering down at the street below. She’s put on her leggings and big jumper, and is cupping her mug of tea in her hands. She looks up and smiles at him as he comes through the door, her heart swelling with fondness.

He grins back at her, relaxed happiness radiating from him. He’s been so different since they started...whatever this is they’re doing, that the outside world is about to intrude upon. She likes the change in him, likes that he’s suddenly so relaxed around her. She’s seeing a different side of him that she could never have dreamed existed.

She’s wondered if it’s a side of him that exists outside his flat. She thinks it might be; she’s seen hints of it at Nick and Ilsa’s, when he’s replete with curry and beer, lounging on their sofa. But even there, he’s never quite like he is now.

He moves to peer out of the window too. “We can go out today, I think?” he says. “It’s fourteen days today since we saw Wardle. I think that means it’s today, not tomorrow?”

Robin shrugs. It’s hard to remember, now, how desperately she wanted to leave at the start of this. Her world has shrunk, in two short weeks, to this flat, to the office, to their work and now to Strike.

She doesn’t want it to end.

“You okay?” he asks gently, sliding an arm around her. It’s a thing he does, suddenly. Distant, uncommunicative Strike, touching her arm or brushing against her or smiling at her when she wasn’t looking, and holding her gaze when she notices. It’s all new and she loves it.

Is it all going to change?

She sighs a little and rests her head against his shoulder, and his big hand squeezes her hip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Robin hesitates. “I’m just wondering...how things will look.”

His brows knit in confusion. “Outside?”

Robin chuckles a little. “No. With—” She takes a deep breath. “With us. With...this.” She makes a gesture that encompasses them both, the hug.

Strike draws back a little and looks down at her. Robin feels short next to him suddenly. It’s an unusual feeling. But he tends to put his boots on - she supposes it’s easier to put one boot on than wrestle the other off his prosthetic foot, plus he’s up and down the stairs - while she’s in her socks. She’s not used to feeling short, and she quite likes it.

He’s watching her carefully, and she senses that this is important. “It will look however you want it to look,” he replies, and he seems slightly guarded now.

This irritates her a little. She frowns up at him. “But I don’t want you to make me decide,” she tells him. “What do you want?”

“You,” he replies simply, instantly. “As little as you want to give or as much as I can have.”

And just like that, she’s blinking back tears again.

“Fuck.” Strike sighs a little and turns away briefly to set his mug on the table, swinging back to face her. “I’m sorry, Robin. Was that the wrong thing to say? I’m rubbish at this.”

“No,” Robin smiles through her tears. “It was a lovely thing to say.”

He hesitates, standing there looking at her helplessly, like he’s still not sure he’s got it right.

“I just thought,” Robin clarifies, “Well, I— I wondered if this was just, you know. A thing for now. For this circumstance. To...” She waves her arm. “You know, not just to pass the time, but... Well, it wouldn’t have happened without us being forced together like this.”

He’s gone very still, and she senses she’s said the wrong thing.

“Is that how you see it? Just a...result of circumstance?” His voice is carefully even, devoid of emotion.

“Well...” Robin hesitates. “Don’t you? When would we have got together, otherwise?”

He shrugs. “When I asked you out, hopefully.”

She peeps up at him, a smile stealing across her face. “You were going to ask me out?”

His cheeks have gone slightly pink, and she knows, really knows in this moment, that she loves him.

“When I plucked up the courage.”

“And when would that have been?” she asks, gently teasing.

“One Friday at the Tottenham,” he says, decidedly. He’s clearly been thinking about it.

“Which one?”

He shrugs again. “Last week. Next week. Next month. One day, when the moment felt right.”

“So...never?” She’s grinning now, and so is he.

“I was hoping it would become obvious.”

“You were waiting for a sign?”

“Well, you know. To be sure that it wasn’t the wrong thing to do that would make you run a mile. To be sure you wanted it. Which, with hindsight—”

“—was any Friday night in the last six months,” she finishes for him, and he laughs.

“Maybe longer,” she adds quietly, and he just nods. It’s the first time they’ve finally acknowledged what has hung between them for so very long, since Robin left Matthew, since the Chiswell case, since...maybe even her wedding.

Strike is watching her carefully now. Robin sighs a little again. She puts her mug down on the windowsill and steps into his arms, which slide around her automatically. He smells warm and safe and uniquely of him, and she buries her face in his jumper for a moment.

He’s waiting for her, but patiently, while she forms her thoughts, and she’s grateful not to be rushed.

“I just...don’t want things to change,” she murmurs against him, and leans back to look up at him. “When we go back out into the world. It’s been so perfect, just us locked away here, these last few days, but real life is going to come back now, and—”

He nods. “I know. And work, and cases, and negotiating how much time is for...this. For us.” He hesitates. “How much time do you want?”

Robin shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Enough that I don’t miss you, not so much that we’re in each other’s pockets? I still want to see Van and go to Zumba and shop with Ilsa and...” She trails off. He’s squinting at her like he doesn’t understand.

“Of course you do,” he says slowly, as though he’s feeling his way. “You can do whatever you want with your time. I’m just hoping you’ll choose to spend some of it with me. It’s not my business what you choose to do when we’re not together.”

Robin thinks about this, tries to imagine being able to carry on doing what she wants when she wants, and also have him in her life, and nods doubtfully.

Strike raises an eyebrow at her, and she flushes a little. “I suppose I’m not used to...not having to answer for where I am all the time, yet,” she says. “But I like it, and I don’t want to give it up.”

He presses his lips together in a thin line, as though there are things he’s very definitely not saying, but all he actually says is, “Robin, your time is your own. I won’t make any demands of you that you don’t want to freely give.”

She can see he means it, and suddenly Robin can envisage a different kind of relationship, one where she can retain her autonomy and not have to answer to someone else. Can see that it might be possible to be going out with someone and still truly be herself.

Strike looks thoughtful. “I’d like to keep Friday nights in the Tottenham.” He frames it almost as a question, and Robin smiles. Her arms are around his neck now, and she wants to kiss him, but she also wants to finish this conversation.

“Me, too.”

“And...maybe you wouldn’t go home, or I would walk you back to yours and...maybe not go home.” He sounds so cautious, Robin starts to giggle. His arms tighten around her just a little.

“That sounds good.”

“But we both need to do our usual weekend stuff too, at some point.”

She nods. “We can work that out.”

“And—” he’s feeling his way, she can see “—if I’m honest, I’d like to see you more than that. Maybe another night of the week, or...two, if that’s not too much?”

Robin grins. This is sounding perfect. “And how would we decide which evenings?”

He’s grinning too now, relaxing as they realise they’re on the same page. “I imagine work will probably dictate that.”

Robin nods solemnly. “And football,” she says. “I’m assuming I don’t have to love Arsenal just because I love you. I can have one without the other.”

His eyes flash with something unreadable, something vulnerable yet fierce, and suddenly she realises what she’s just said, but he carries on the banter.

“I reckon I could persuade you to love Arsenal, but it’s not a deal-breaker.”

Pink-cheeked, Robin moves on along the conversational path with him. “I think I’ll leave you and Arsenal to your own devices,” she says. “That sounds like man cave time.”

He nods, and he’s smiling softly down at her.

“So, I assume today you’ll want to go home...?”

Robin nods. “I’ll need to address my fridge. There was milk in there, and yoghurt. That’s going to be walking away on its own by now. And I’ll need groceries.” She hesitates. “But...maybe you’d like to come over later?”

He pulls her closer. “I’d like that very much.”

She burrows her face into his jumper again. “So, we’re...dating?”

He kisses the top of her head. “That makes us sound like we’re teenagers.”

“Seeing each other?”

She can hear the grin in his voice. “An item. A couple.”

She giggles. “Going steady.”

His voice is warm and low. “Stepping out.”

She tilts her head back, and he kisses her before she can say anything more, slowly but thoroughly, until her heart is skipping about in her chest and warmth is creeping through her stomach, and then he draws back again suddenly.

“And just to be crystal clear while we’re at it, I’m only going to be seeing you,” he says seriously. He half-shrugs. “Maybe it doesn’t need saying, but I won’t mess you around.”

Robin nods. “I know.”

He smiles again, that gorgeous soft smile that is for her now. “We good?”

Robin nods. “We are.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses her again.

They kiss for long minutes, stood by the window out into the world that they’re both so reluctant to get back to now. Heat coils low in Robin’s groin, and she supposes that outside can wait a little longer. She slides one hand down his torso, under his jumper and around to his back, pulling him closer, and with a small growl he flexes his hips to hers and she can feel that his thoughts are quite definitely heading in the same direction.

One of his hands slides from her waist to her breast, and when he realises she hadn’t bothered with the bra this morning, he moans gently into her mouth, his erection hard now against her thigh.

Robin rocks against it with a whimper of desire, and Strike breaks free from the kiss with a small strangled sound of need and runs his lips and gently nipping teeth along her jaw to her ear.

Robin drops her head back with a groan, and then jumps violently as the door buzzer on the wall just behind her goes off loudly.

“Fuck!” Strike hisses against her skin. “Bloody clients, we should have put a sign downstairs.”

Heart hammering from desire and fright, Robin clings to him. The buzzer sounds again. “Want me to get it?”

“Ignore it,” he mutters, still exploring her neck, sending goosebumps washing down her arms. “They’ll go away.”

The buzzer sounds again.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Strike swings away and snatches up the entry phone. “What?” he barks.

“That’s a fine way to greet someone who’s brought you cake.” They can both clearly hear Ilsa, unapologetic, laughing.

Strike sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair. Robin smiles softly and takes the phone from him. “Hi, Ilsa,” she says warmly.

“At least you’re being polite. You can have two slices. Let us in!”

Robin glances at Strike. “Us?”

“Your colleagues are here. You really should give them keys, you know.”

Strike raises an eyebrow. Barclay has a key, but has presumably decided to give them fair warning of the arrival of visitors. Sensible, seeing as they believe Strike is sleeping in the office.

Robin nods. “Come on up,” she says, and presses to let them in.

She hangs up the entry phone, and Strike makes a grumbling sound and pulls her back into his arms. “Bloody real life, intruding already,” he mutters.

Robin grins. She can feel him still hard against her. “Shall I go down and put the kettle on?”

He grins ruefully. “I think you’d better. I’ll follow in a minute.”

Robin steps reluctantly out of his arms, grabs her trainers from the floor by the door and starts to pull them on. His hand ghosts across her backside and she straightens up. “Behave,” she says, grinning. “Save it for later.”

He pouts, and she kisses him, brief and fierce, and pulls away, giggling, and heads down to the office.

She meets Ilsa, Barclay and Hutchins on the landing, and it’s weird for a moment, seeing people other than Strike. She lets them all into the office, and Ilsa puts the cake box down on Robin’s desk and gives her a brief, fierce hug.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says, and hugs her for just a beat longer, a beat that holds all the things she can’t say in front of the two men standing slightly awkwardly to one side. When she draws back, her blue-green eyes dance at Robin’s, making the younger woman blush, but she merely says, “Cake?”

“Lovely,” Robin nods. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

She gives Andy and Sam each a kiss on the cheek, and moves to the kitchenette to fill the kettle with water.

“Where’s the big man?” Barclay asks, peering through into the office where Strike’s camp bed is folded away against the wall, the sleeping bag neatly on top of it. It has an air of disuse, and Barclay glances curiously at Robin, who desperately hopes her cheeks aren’t pink as she replies.

“Um, he’s just upstairs. He’ll be down in a minute.”

She doesn’t miss the way their contractors glance at one another, or Andy’s sideways look at Ilsa ducking her head and focusing on the cake to hide her grin.

Kettle chuntering and mugs ready, Robin asks about their cases, and before she’s fully caught up, Strike clumps down the stairs from his flat and joins them all. He shakes hands with the men and receives a fierce hug from Ilsa, too, and Robin fusses with the mugs and tea bags to avoid looking at any of them.

Her cheeks feel hot. She’s only wearing a jumper and leggings, and is now acutely conscious of her no bra situation. She knows that Barclay suspects the camp bed hasn’t been used lately, and Ilsa isn’t helping with all the grinning. Suddenly Robin hates the intrusion of the world into their space, resents people knowing and judging and having opinions on something that feels so new and raw, fragile and in need of protection.

And as always, Strike reads her, understands. He steps across to her as she sets the kettle back on its stand and starts to squeeze tea bags, and he rests his hand lightly on her hip as he bends to open the fridge and take out the milk.

It’s deliberate, slightly possessive, and meant to convey a signal. He sets the milk on the counter and turns back to face the others. Robin risks a sideways glance at him, and he’s looking at their contractors and friend coolly, almost daring them to make a comment.

Barclay clears his throat. “So I’ve got quite a few pictures for you,” he says to Strike, carefully not looking at Robin, and Strike nods.

“Come and stick the memory card in the laptop,” he replies, and the men move through to the inner office, talking about work.

Robin relaxes a little, and turns shyly to face Ilsa, expecting teasing, yet seeing only pure happiness. But even Ilsa is restrained, keeping herself to a whispered “so happy for you!” and a surreptitious wipe of her eyes. They work together to cut the cake into pieces and wrap them in the napkins Ilsa brought, and take tea and cake through to the men. Robin wants to linger and hear about their marks, but she can’t abandon Ilsa, and Strike can bring her up to speed later, so she and Ilsa repair to the farting sofa with their mugs and napkins, to eat and drink and catch up.


	16. Epilogue

Strike stretches his long legs out across the Herberts’ patio with a contended sigh and fishes in his pocket for his cigarettes. Nick sets two beers down and plonks himself into the other chair. In the kitchen, Ilsa and Robin chat while they stack the empty curry cartons. The flowers Strike and Robin bought for Ilsa to thank her for her deliveries sit in the middle of the table in a vase.

He lights his cigarette and takes a moment to watch the women. Robin has always been gorgeous, but tonight she’s...luminous. They’ve spent almost every night of the ten days since their isolation ended together. They didn’t get out of bed until lunchtime, today. He can’t get enough of her. He knows they’re going to have to settle into their agreed pattern, and they will, he thinks. When this...well, sort of honeymoon period is over.

Robin glances through the closed patio doors and catches his eye, and her smile lights up her face, making his heart lurch with happiness as it always does. His promise to himself not to scare her off by blurting out his feelings had lasted less than a week, but she hadn’t backed off in the least, merely snuggling sleepily up to him and murmuring “I know” and “me too”.

He drags his eyes away, a goofy grin on his face, and Nick is smiling fondly at him. Strike is too happy to care if his friend is going to tease him.

“Come on, then, get it over with.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Get what over with?”

“The piss-taking.” Strike draws deeply on his cigarette and blows the smoke out across the garden. “You’ve had enough time to think up some good jokes.”

“I’ve been far too busy,” Nick sniffs with false dignity. “Some of us were out saving the world while you were sat around taking almost two weeks to decide to snog Robin.”

Strike laughs. There it is.

“How is work?” he asks, serious suddenly. “It’s gone a bit quiet on the news.”

Nick nods. “Yeah, good,” he said. “In the end, not the deluge we were expecting. It was busy, but not as bad as a lot of the modelling had suggested. It’s not as serious an illness as they’d feared, and we’re almost back to normal.”

“Good,” Strike says fervently. “That’s really good.”

Nick nods again. “Long time since I’ve worked hours like that,” he adds ruefully. “I’d forgotten how hellish it is.” He stretches a little. “So, yeah, I’m knackered, but the worst is over.”

Quiet settles over them, and Strike smokes and tries not to keep staring at Robin, without much success. The odd sideways glance from her and the sneaky smile that pulls at the corner of her mouth tells him she knows he can’t stop looking at her and she likes it. When their eyes meet, it almost jolts him, and he’s glad they said they won’t stay over. He can’t wait to get back to her flat, and it’ll be worth the cost of a cab not to have to be quiet in Nick and Ilsa’s spare room.

Nick nudges Strike’s good foot with his own boot. “Am I going to get any sensible conversation out of you at all this evening?” he asks, gently teasing, and Strike grins, unashamed.

“Probably not,” he says cheerfully. “Bit distracted.”

Nick laughs fondly. “And why not?” he replies. “When Ilsa and I first got back together, we were inseparable.”

Strike chuckles. “I remember. You both vanished.”

Nick grins. “Yup.”

“That reminds me.” Strike stubs out his cigarette and pulls himself out of his chair, wanders in through the house to fetch his coat, which is hanging on the peg by the front door. He makes his way back, pausing to drop a kiss on the top of Robin’s golden head and being shooed away by a giggling Ilsa - “you get her all the time, she’s mine this evening!” - and, grinning, steps back out onto the patio.

He reaches into the deep inside pocket of his coat and produces a small bottle of single malt, which he plonks on the table in front of Nick. He tosses his coat over the back of a spare chair and sits back down, idly reaching for his beer.

Nick raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Your delivery service payment.” Strike grins.

Nick has carefully not mentioned his role in proceedings thus far, and laughs. “It was no bother, it wasn’t much of a detour.”

“Yeah, but you had to go and get them.”

Nick chuckles ruefully. “And that _was_ a mission. I haven’t bought them in...must be over a decade? It’s changed a bit since then. Rather more options, shall we say.”

Strike casts him a cheeky sideways glance. “Well, it was appreciated. As was the implication that I might need twelve for the remaining one day of isolation.”

Nick roars with laughter. “Well, I thought three might not cut it, and you didn’t want to have to go straight out...”

Strike is laughing too now. “Yeah, but we are nearly forty these days, mate.”

Nick shakes his head, still chuckling. “I seem to remember I owed you anyway.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, that weekend in Paris that was just supposed to be just a booze trip?”

“Oh, yeah, when we met those nurses.” Strike’s gaze goes unfocussed for a moment.

“And I didn’t have any supplies, because I genuinely thought we were going on a lads’ weekend,” Nick says ruefully.

Strike grins. “We were. We just got sidetracked.”

“Well, anyway. I owed you a few from then.”

“I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Good weekend, though.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small, thoughtful pause, and then the patio door slides and the women step out.

“What are you two talking about?” Ilsa asks cheerfully.

“Nothing interesting,” Strike replies smoothly as Nick coughs and buries his face in his beer.

Ilsa skirts the table and plonks herself in the spare chair next to her husband. Robin looks at Strike’s coat taking up the last chair, and picks it up and pulls it on, sitting down with it wrapped around her.

“Good plan,” Ilsa says, shivering a little in the cool evening air. “Where’s your coat, Nick?”

Her husband wrinkles his nose at her fondly and clambers to his feet. He leans in through the patio door and grabs a throw from the back of a dining chair.

Strike lights another cigarette while Ilsa settles the blanket around herself. Robin, swamped in his coat, reaches across for him, her hand sliding out of the end of a sleeve, and tangles her fingers with his.

How many times have they sat like this, the four of them, Strike wonders. So many curry nights since Robin lived here for a few weeks a year ago. To an outsider, this would look like any other of those nights. The four of them, replete with curry, finishing off the last of the beer and wine, with coffees waiting to be made and enjoyed before he and Robin leave.

But everything is different. Robin’s hand is in his. He knows, now, all the things he had tried to keep himself from wondering about for so long. The taste of her tongue in his mouth. The silken slide of her hair through his fingers. The feel of her in his arms. The miracle of her somehow feeling the same way as him, the eager welcome into her bed, into her heart.

He sighs, deeply content, and Ilsa grins at him as she reaches for Nick’s hand. She knows.

Strike squeezes Robin’s fingers gently, and she smiles at him, the smile that is his whole world now. She squeezes back, her eyes full of promise for later, and his heart swells again with happiness. It’s not a feeling he’s been used to much in his life, but he likes it. He could get used to it.

He draws on his cigarette again, and the conversation moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re done! Thank you all for the wonderful comments and for reading along ❤️
> 
> I’ve played down the real-world awfulness deliberately. It’s too dark for a little light-hearted fic to contain. Let’s hope this is all over soon. In the meantime, we have lots of lovely fanfic for escapism!


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